Good Times
by DealingDearie
Summary: A collection of Marvel drabbles (many ships and many characters) written for various prompts over on Tumblr.
1. Budapest

"It really wasn't like Budapest, you know," Clint reminded her for the hundredth time as they sat sprawled across the cushions of the small sofa in one of the countless rooms of Avengers Tower. Natasha smirked and shook her head, rolling her eyes as she absently stretched her legs out over his lap while he laid a warm, gentle palm against her knee, a comforting, routine gesture she'd learned to both enjoy and rely on. He cast a pointed glance her way, one brow raised.

"_At all_," he continued, and she tilted her head back to rest against the arm of the couch, closing her eyes as he began to draw slow, lazy circles over her kneecap. He watched, smiling, as the light from the nearby window lit her fiery hair with slivers of gold, tracing the sharp angle of cheekbones as if he could reach out across the small expanse between them and cup her face in his palm, longing to do just that the more he contemplated the idea. She held up a hand, pointing her index finger toward the ceiling as if it were a meaningful gesture he should instantly understand.

"Ok, there were explosions," she began knowingly, nodding to herself as the light seeped past her eyelids to illuminate the darkness there, "and really irritating soldiers that wouldn't stop shooting at us-"

"Alien soldiers," Clint interjected amusedly, and she held up a different finger entirely, aimed in his general direction. She interpreted the instantaneous bout of laughter, familiar and healthy and _home_, as a sign that she hadn't missed, and continued, resisting the urge to laugh herself.

"There was a blond, muscular guy trying to help us, and a guy with extreme anger management issues amazingly fighting on our side."

Clint cracked a grin as she opened one eye to peek over at him, an imploring glint in her gaze as she wondered if she should go on, and he nodded, feeling that same swelling sensation in his chest at the very sight of her, lithe and relaxed and casual beside him, her red curls framing such a deceivingly innocent face.

She reclined against the arm once more, sighing quietly-a peaceful, happy thing-and proceeding to tell him in painful detail all the ways in which he was wrong. Clint didn't mind, though; he could listen to Nat talk all day.

**Please R&R! All rights go to their respective owners.**


	2. Antagonists Anonymous

Loki, dressed in attire similar to that which he'd worn during that miserable year imprisoned within the dungeons of Asgard, was sulking, arms crossed and emerald gaze icy and trained on Thor, who sat, reluctant, beside him. The metal chairs they'd been given were uncomfortable, and, across from them, Steve sat opposite Thor, nervously running a hand through his tousled hair and gazing down at the floor as Bucky, hunched down at his side, stared warily over at the mischievous god. Bruce, lounging in his rusty chair as gracefully as only Bruce could, stared at them all, huddled in a tight, closed circle of five people.

Dr. Banner cleared his throat awkwardly and nodded to himself, flipping yet another piece of yellow, stiff paper over on his notepad and clicking his pen as Loki took a deep, rattling, unnecessarily loud breath that broke the air of silence and tension that had begun to weigh them down. Bucky blinked stonily, his mouth twisted in a frown as the dim overhead light sent glinting, shivering lines of brightness over the silver of his metal arm, and Loki watched the display with contempt, leaning back in his seat even more.

"At least I didn't work for Nazis," he muttered angrily, and Thor turned a sharp glare on him.

"Loki," he ground out, irritated, just as Bruce murmured, mostly to himself, "We've been over this."

Steve, who had been silent for most of their session (a forced conversation riddled with accusations of mass murder from both sides in a weary attempt to defend their actions), straightened in his seat, blue eyes bright and angry and trained on the god.

"Bucky didn't know what he was doing; _you _knew _exactly _what you were doing and even enjoyed it," he spat, enraged, but Loki merely smirked at his irritation. Bucky, his gaze flicking between Thor and Loki in front of him, tilted his head and, with a haughty, smug grin plastered onto his face, laughed.

"At least I don't love my brother just a _little_ too much," he retorted, crossing his arms over his chest as if he'd just won the lottery, and Loki's eyes widened with barely contained fury as Thor choked on the words he was about to offer. Loki's jaw muscle twitched, almost imperceptibly, beneath his pallid skin, and he mimicked Bucky's own posture, a strange, mirthful light coming alive in his glare. Bruce glanced between them, frowning in concern, and scribbled furiously on his yellow notepad, glasses slowly slipping down the bridge of his nose.

"At least **I** don't speak in homosexual code to my," Loki murmured, air-quoting his next words, "_best friend_."

Bucky's cheeks reddened just the slightest and Loki, in response, snickered triumphantly. Bruce looked up from behind the rim of his glasses, chewing on the inside of his cheek absently.

"I think we need a few more sessions."


	3. Disagreement

"Look at you," Loki drawled silkily as Sif tugged off a rather irritating piece of tattered, bloody legging that had been clinging to her calf all day, "fresh from battle and still as stunning as ever."

Sif, tossing the offending cloth onto the floor of her bedroom, rolled her eyes, unable to keep the grin off her face as she looked to him.

"It wasn't battle; Thor merely found himself on the wrong side of a disagreement." Loki snorted, padding softly across the stone floor to stand just behind her, removing the pieces of armor protecting her shoulders as she simultaneously removed the piece shielding her torso. Loki made a noise in the back of his throat, one that indicated how much he actually didn't believe Sif at all, and smirked.

"A disagreement, hm?" he asked mockingly as he removed the chain mail next, then the pieces folded around her forearms. She nodded silently, watching him in the mirror on the far wall, strands of her dark hair fallen from her pony tail and clinging persistently to the specks of blood on her cheeks as Loki moved to the basin of water at the vanity, dipping a towel in it. He returned and gently scrubbed the blood from her face and arms, waiting patiently as she removed her boots and leggings so that he could rinse them off, as well, and she couldn't help but smile.

Moving back up, he threw the towel on the floor and leaned toward her to undo the strict binds of her hair, watching as the ebony tumbled down around her shoulders. She gave him a teasing look, grey eyes bright in the candlelight, and he sent her his most mischievous smile as he wrapped his arms about her waist, pulling her body flush against his.

She hugged his shoulders, content, and rested her cheek against the soft cotton of his nightshirt, just against his chest, hearing the melodic pounding of his heart beside her ear.


	4. Troublemaker

Since Tony's curious blood ran through her veins, Rosemary often got into situations that weren't easily escaped, and today was no different. Pepper was out for the day, shopping with Maria and Natasha (but Tony suspected that they weren't shopping at all, since Natasha's last 'sneak Pepper out of the house for an illegal night on the town' escapade was now famous around the Tower), and Tony was left alone to look after his daughter.

At the tentative age of twelve, she was just starting to behave, but in the moments that she found herself alone, she felt overrun by the need to explore. Said need usually led her to the familiar depths of her father's lab, with every small thing she was forbidden to touch strewn about the place in one messy heap, enticing and beckoning.

Needless to say, she ended up tinkering with one of the few suits Tony had built after dramatically dismantling them all years ago, convinced she could make it fly faster if only she could just pry open that _one_ panel and flip that _one_ tiny switch-it had been the wrong switch.

And that was why Tony walked into his lab to find pieces of his suit littering the floor, some stuck in the rafters, and some clinging to the fallen form of Rosemary as she sat on the floor, pouting at her failure, while a small fire burned near her, flickering orange and heat just at her back. Tony, upon hindsight, probably could have handled it a bit better than merely standing there in shock, but, thankfully, DUM-E swooped in to save the day, dousing the fire with its beloved extinguisher as Rosemary grimaced at her father in apprehension.

She was going to be in _so much trouble_.

Tony snapped his fingers, seemingly just as he snapped himself out of whatever reverie he'd been in, and descended the stairs two steps at a time, smirking.

"That's the smartest thing you've ever done, DUM-E," he said casually.


	5. Mirror

Bucky often preferred to lock himself up in the room Steve had thrust upon him rather hastily (claiming that since Bucky had nowhere else to go, he should stay with friends), ruminating on his all-too-distant past and all those years he lost, thinking in circles about the new world he'd been thrown into and how vastly different everything was.

He liked to gaze at himself in the mirror (not for self-conceited purposes, which is what Steve would have thought if it were 1941 again) so that he could trace the junction at his shoulder, where metal met skin, so that he could trace the glint of bathroom lighting across the heavy arm that he couldn't ever remember acquiring.

He liked to imagine that, if he tried hard enough, he could remember it all, that he could recall the pain he must have felt when it was attached to him, that he could dig up the memories and relive them just as easily as if they'd only been created hours ago.

He liked to pretend that it hadn't been over half a century, like to think everything had remained the same and so greatly unchanged, but he was wrong, and his own warped reflection reminded him of that, brought a helpful dose of truth to his long reveries when he needed it most.

The metallic shine of it, the ever-constant presence, brought Bucky to a safe corner of reality, and if he was grateful for anything in his new life, it was that.


	6. Games

"So he just spins and hits the crates and gets some apples?" Bucky asked curiously as he turned the controller in his hand to the left, as if doing so could control the way in which Crash Bandicoot turned on the TV screen before them, and Steve, an amused gleam shining in the depths of his blue eyes, smiled, shrugging.

"Yeah, and he kills the bad guys and defeats a boss every now and then, or so Tony tells me. I haven't really played it all the way through." Bucky, ducking just the slightest as an apple was sent flying toward him on the screen, frowned, deep in both thought and concentration as he tried to figure out how to make Crash double jump and avoid an exploding box.

He turned to glance at his best friend for a split second, smiling, but the action cost him, and Crash was killed by a mummy. Bucky tossed the ancient controller down in mild frustration onto the soft carpet and reclined in his seat upon the couch cushions.

"And Tony, he's Howard's son, right?" Steve pressed the pause button on Bucky's controller, stifling his smile at Bucky's failure, and nodded, the shine of memory bright in his gaze as he looked over to his friend.

"Tony had a rough childhood, everybody says, but I can't imagine it. Stark was nice, you know? I mean, you remember him. How could he just treat his son like that?"

Bucky, not wanting to be reminded of a past that was torn from him, and definitely not wanting to ruminate on how he had assassinated said Howard Stark years before, cleared his throat and picked up the controller again.

"People change, I guess. Things happen."

He hit the start button, and they both pretended that Bucky was only talking about their long-dead friend instead of the two of them, and the swishing sound that emitted from the television as Crash spun to face an animated attacker swallowed the surfacing melancholy and brought a smile to both their faces.


	7. Jamba Juice

All lowly muttered comments of 'it's gone, Nat' were promptly ignored as Natasha determinedly sucked every ounce of fruity slushiness she could from the straw stuck in her jamba juice, or what used to be her jamba juice, her eyes closed so that she could ignore the irritated expressions of everyone around her and thoroughly savor and enjoy the taste.

Finally, after the struggling sounds made by her straw, she gave up, and lazily tossed the cup into the trash can, already missing it. Clint gave her a disapproving look and stood to make his way to the kitchen, coming back with another cup of what had previously been his jamba juice in hand, and reached out to offer it to the red-haired spy, who was leveling him with a look of such suspicion that he almost threw the drink at her.

Slowly, she snatched it from his hand, and then proceeded to smile down at the pink slush, perfectly content.


	8. Hairstyles

"So you're still not dating?" Natasha questioned nonchalantly as she munched on a granola bar she'd managed to find in one of the several cabinets of Stark's overly large kitchen.

Steve, sitting on a bar stool with a glass of water held loosely in his hand, sent her a withering stare and sighed. She chewed loudly, mostly just to annoy him, and smirked as he shook his head and stared down into the glass in his grip. Sidling over to take a ginger seat beside him, she inspected the crunchy bits of peanut butter laced throughout her granola bar, busying herself as she caught Steve glancing at her out of the corner of her eye.

In the right light, his eyes shone like oceans, vividly staring at her with all the reluctant gentleness in the world, and she wondered, not for the first time, if his eyes had perhaps been softer before, before the war and before his transformation, before his whole life crumbled and was built anew. She wondered, and longed to see them with that untainted purity she imagined, and was so caught up in her thoughts that she didn't notice how fully he was gazing at her, squinting as the light pouring in from the windows illuminated her features.

She did notice, however, when Steve reached out with strong, steady fingers to brush an errant curl from her face, tucking it behind her ear, and she blinked, startled, but masked it well, masked it as only a trained, conditioned spy ever could, and the corner of his mouth quirked up.

"Your hair looks best curly," he murmured, eyes widening as he blanched.

"I mean-Not that…your hair looks bad straight. It's just…"

Quickly, he averted his gaze, and she felt familiar heat rush to her face as she took another bite from her granola bar to hide the grin slipping onto her face.


	9. Groceries

It all started one cold morning in the midst of winter, when Bucky had the tendency to sleep in rather than get up at the crack of dawn, unlike one Natasha Romanoff. He'd stay in bed for hours, all while Natasha was impatiently waiting for him to get up so they could train together, since he was the only one, other than Steve, who had near-endless stamina and could take her hits and kicks without so much as a grimace, and she was the only one who could often outwit him. In her spare time, Natasha would usually realize the scarcity of food in the tower.

With so many people living there, it was a miracle that the refrigerator stayed fully stocked for even a day, and so she frequently found herself at the grocery store. Pepper was always too busy running the company, and Tony was hardly ever anywhere but in his lab, tinkering and experimenting while Bruce talked about the latest scientific discovery.

Thor seemed to eternally be confused by Midgardian ways, despite Jane's determined attempts to explain it all to him, and Clint wouldn't be caught dead in a grocery store, not since Budapest. Steve, too distracted by his efforts to help Bucky remember, noticed that his comrade slept far too late, and Natasha was getting quite tired of going out into the freezing rain and snow to buy food almost every day.

So, she devised a plan. In the early morning light, she'd sneak into Bucky's room, stealthy and silent, with a handful of letter magnets. Usually, she'd spell out _milk_ and _bread_, and such other simple food items, slowly sticking them to his metal arm and dashing over to throw open the curtains. He'd wake, irritated, and she'd toss away the covers greedily clinging to him, crossing her arms in what was meant to be an intimidating gesture.

"I'm tired of freezing every time I got to buy _us all_ groceries, so you and your super serum-ed self can go do it. You have better temperature tolerance, anyway."

With that, she'd dart out of the room, stifling her laughter, planning all the ways in which she'd relax for the day, since she wouldn't have to be hunting down food to buy. After all, Bucky always listened to her, for some odd reason; she guessed that it was because she scared everyone, even the Winter Soldier, just a little-deep, deep down.

And she always lingered in the hall outside his bedroom just long enough to hear his muffled sigh of both defeat and frustration as he peeled the magnets off of his arm.


	10. Reassurance

In a very specific kind of way, certain and constant, Charles had changed lives. He'd touched Mystique's heart with such a warmth that it could never entirely ice over in all the years after their abrupt parting. He'd picked up their team from the ashes of sorrow and lifted them to the cheer of victory, had saved them all and dusted their shoulders off and taken them in to teach them the ways of good men and good mutants.

He'd lured Erik from the point of no return and had shown him what the sun truly felt like, had shown him how cold and unforgiving the shadows could be, had given him light and hope and friendship in such darkness.

In the end, though, it hadn't been enough, and Charles-good, pure, believing, optimistic Charles-had changed instead. He'd spiraled, had darkened, and in the wake of what Erik had once known to be true was a broken, dreamless, hopeless man, fractured and scarred and bitter. It had crushed him to realize the fact, to be told one day that Charles would never walk again, to know, despite the indifferent front he put up against the outside world, that it was his fault.

He'd let Charles believe that things could improve, that they could be the better men, that everything bad in life could be eradicated with a few bright moments. But Erik wasn't the better man and he'd let everything fall away, had let his anger take over, his lust for revenge, his grudge on humanity. He'd let it destroy him, and in the process had done the same to Charles, who'd never walk, always that sadness in his blue eyes.

It was all shot to hell, really.

So, when Charles at last glanced at him over a rather competitive, intense game of chess, years and years later after the rift had been stitched together and torn anew and stitched again, and smiled in that way of his, all hope and brightness and promises, Erik knew that he hadn't messed it all up as colossally as he could have.


	11. The Winter Soldier

Sometimes, Bucky would glance down at his hands, fleetingly and fearfully, to see them covered in blood.

He'd blink, shocked, and all would be right again, one hand covered in clean, pale skin and the other formed from shining metal that winked back at him in the daylight, as if cheerfully reminding him of things better left buried in the past.

Sometimes, he'd catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror and see a vision of how he used to be, hair cut messily to fit under his military hat, his grin cocky and his eyes bright with excitement. The reverie never lasted very long. Even more frequently, then, he'd hear voices, some pleading, some affectionate, all and none familiar. His mind was a jumble of words and images and sounds, things he was certain that he knew but couldn't quite remember, and it was absolutely maddening.

Cutting his long hair, when at last he did, felt like a balm, a soothing thing to quell the tide of unwanted memories, just another way of breaking away from who he'd become (trying his hardest to return to who he'd been). I

t wasn't easy, not at all, but he was finding that the less he focused on how all of his friends were dead (with the exception of his best friend), how he'd murdered Stark and his wife, how he'd killed countless more people, and how he'd lost so many years of his life, the better it all got.

And the better it all got, the more convinced Bucky became that he could make the most out of the new chance he'd been given, the new hand he'd been dealt, the new life he had yet to live.


	12. New Hope

It was as if his heart had been roughly torn from the tight confines of his chest, as if it had been thrown harshly to the ground and stomped upon right before his very eyes, as if the oxygen was slipping from his lungs just as easily as sand might flow past his fingers. The static was grating, all too loud, and Bucky had never felt a silence so heavy, a silence so thick, as the one that surrounded them immediately after the signal cut out.

Peggy, tears dripping down the pale skin of her face, stared unblinkingly ahead of her, chocolate-hued eyes round and wide as the light shivered against her irises, and he stared down at her, knuckles white and trembling from his relentless grip upon the edge of the counter. His breath simply wouldn't come, and he had to close his eyes against the current of grief threatening to pull him under, lurking just outside his full awareness, prepared to strike and suffocate him slowly.

Carefully, Peggy pushed back her chair and stood, and his eyelids flew open at the sound, watching as she wiped the chilling tears from her skin just as new, warmer ones replaced them, and he noticed how reddened her nose and cheeks were, how sporadically her throat bobbed from the effort of keeping her sobs quiet. It was a small, short-lived comfort to know that someone else was going through the same thing he was; it was something he would have thought of regarding Steve, he knew, and that made his absence, sudden and shocking and hasty, all the more painful to bear.

Honestly, Bucky didn't think he could.

...

It had been two long years since Steve's disappearance, and despite Stark's occasional reassurances that he could be found, they were all feeling hopeless. Bucky had discovered a lone corner within his mind to retreat to when potential news of Steve's status fell through, and Peggy had found a kindred spirit within him, for some inconceivable reason, that kept her going.

Perhaps it was the bits of himself that Steve had left behind, reflected in Bucky's bright gaze and casual habits that she saw, that she clung to; Bucky would never know.

All he knew was that it made her show a tiny smile, every once and a while, when he laid a hand on her arm so that she wouldn't cry, and that it made the dark depths of her eyes dozens of shades lighter when he pulled her close to him to properly embrace her, as he was certain Steve would have done, and he liked to imagine that she herself was pretending that he was, in fact, the man they'd both lost. That was how they coped: friend to friend, comrade to comrade, the suffering to the suffering. And for a while, it was enough.

For a while, it helped, until the light touches upon her arm just weren't enough, until the simple hugs left him yearning to hold her even longer, until the soft curls of her hair, felt against his chin when he rested his head atop her own, began to smell like the sweetest scent he'd ever known. He didn't remember when or how it happened, but, suddenly, she was there before him with that reluctant curl of her lips, as if smiling completely still hurt her just a bit, deep down.

She was there with those wide, imploring eyes, just in front of him as the light danced across her features, and he reached out to trace its path on her ivory, heated skin. And when Bucky, with his breath held and his eyes closed, tilted her chin with two of his fingers in what was admittedly the softest gesture he'd ever shown, to gently press his lips to hers, it was, finally, _enough_.


	13. Certain

Loki, when he thought about it, hated his family.

He hated Odin most of all, for his persistent lies and his blatant abandonment when his support had mattered the most. He hated him for all the times he'd looked down at his two sons and chosen one over the other, hated him for every smile he never got to see while Thor witnessed each one (proud, approving, happy).

And _Thor_, well, he hated Thor, too. He hated him because Loki couldn't _be_ him, could never meet the expectations-set for him as soon as Odin laid his one good eye on a wailing baby in Jotunheim-that Thor so easily soared to reach. He hated his blond, blue-eyed brother because he would eternally be unable to set himself as equal in Odin's eyes, would always be the shadow to Thor's glorious sunlight, would never be anything more than what he already was (abandoned, left to die, Laufey's son). Frigga, then, was another issue entirely.

Loki hated her because she, too, had lied, but that hate was shallow, its reach limited, its grip on his thoughts fluid and easily evaded. His affection for her, though reluctant to be realized, far outweighed his dislike for the woman, and the sting of her memory was still a fresh and deadly thing to him, poisonous and traitorous, just as it was for Thor, who took every opportunity to remind Loki of how dearly he was loved, how high their mother had set her hopes for her wayward son, how remorseful Odin must have been.

It was all monotonous, and yet Loki couldn't exactly dismiss Thor's attempts entirely; such efforts meant that, somewhere in the depths of his heart, Thor cared for Loki, cared for him in ways Loki had been denied by Odin, cared for him like a brother should, and that alone was enough to make Loki hesitate. That alone was what made him think that, perhaps, Thor could be right, and that they could be a proper family again, exactly like nothing had ever gone wrong.

But that was a lie, one of the many Loki had wrapped himself in as of late. Things had most definitely gone wrong and Frigga was dead and they could never be a proper family again. Loki's hands were caked in blood and Thor's heart was fractured in too many places and Odin was a shell of the man he'd once been so many, many years ago, all in the wake of such devastating moments.

So, when Thor next looked at Loki with that imploring, pleading glint in his oceanic irises, Loki turned away, loathe to feel, if even for a moment, what he could never again have.

Yes, Loki hated his family more than anything else in the world.


	14. Visions

In his mind, she was dancing, twirling in that crimson dress of hers without a single care in the world, her ruby-stained lips curved upward in a loving, cheerful smile and her chocolate curls bouncing about her pale face. She was sashaying toward him, her hands outstretched as her slender form waved as if pushed by the wind, fluid and natural.

She was saying his name, and it felt so sweet against his lonely ears, felt exactly like a glass of icy water after a week stranded in the hottest, driest desert. Her touch, velvety at his cheek, felt almost necessary, and he closed his eyes against the current of emotion threatening to pour from him.

How long had it been?

How many years had she lived without him? How many moments had he spent longing to hear her, to see her?

_How long had it been?_

Steve opened his eyes, staring into the depthless, warm gaze of the one love of his life, and Peggy's radiant smile turned sad, a forlorn expression twisting her happy features into a pout.

"Too long," she murmured, and the vision dissipated just as if it'd never been there at all. He was left, both alone and yearning, wishing that he could, for once, get intoxicated, praying that the alcohol would drown his memories and render him empty and thoughtless, safely cocooned in oblivion.


	15. Beginnings

Her hair was all shiny curls and bouncing strands of gold as she turned to laugh at him, running, gliding, really, across the dewy grass as the midday sun beamed down at her, eternally in the spotlight. He tried his best to keep up, gangly legs flying as fast as they could as he ran beside her, and she folded her hand neatly in his; he might have been surprised that her palm felt so natural against his, that their hands knit together perfectly, but Loki wasn't the least bit taken aback by it.

Sif was his best friend, next to Thor, and it was only right that they complement each other, darkness and light, yin and yang. She turned her fierce grey eyes upon him and laughed a tinkling, bright laugh before releasing her hold on him to flit over in her pink summer dress, the ends billowing about her legs in the cool breeze, to the other side of the field, and Loki's own laughter followed. In the daylight, his ivy-hued gaze was vivid, and it was the first thing she made out as he came barreling toward her with his mischievous grin, tackling her to the ground.

They rolled across the sharp blades of grass, wrestling playfully, and Sif, eventually, came out triumphant, a victorious mirth clear in her cheery features as she climbed on top of him to pin his arms to the ground. Loki had known her unusual strength, and determination, from the moment he'd met her, but still found himself surprised at her display of it. He tilted his head, and she watched as his dark mess of hair pooled over the grass below him.

"Have you met my brother?" Loki asked curiously, and Sif made a face, blushing, before shaking her head.

"No…I've heard of him, though."

Loki nodded to himself, freeing his arms from her steely grasp and rubbing his wrists absently.

"I think he'll like you."


	16. Morning

In the lingering darkness of the early morning, Loki could only barely trace the angles of Sif's face: the sharp cheekbones, the arched brow bones, the lush dip above her lips, and the soft curve of her nose. He of course did so with careful gentleness, fingers almost trembling from how much effort it took not to wake her or put too much pressure in his touch.

The silky, heated skin beneath his fingertips, oddly smooth after years of bruises and cuts, felt amazingly familiar, and he smiled as she stirred in the midst of slumber, the sheets tossed from her body so that the crisp air could cool her. Slowly, he reached over to wrap a few strands of her dark hair about his finger, remembering exactly how her hair had once looked in all of its golden glory.

The memory both dampened and lifted his spirits; surely, Sif had not forgiven him for it, but she was learning to overlook his flaws, just as he was learning to overlook hers.

And in the end, all they would ever amount to would be locked away in the depths of memory, trapped within storybook pages crinkling with age at the edges, lurking beneath ink splashed upon paper. He wrapped his arms around her waist and curled his body protectively behind hers, feeling the notches of her spin against his chest and abdomen.

They'd be history, he knew.


	17. Differences

Loki wondered if it'd ever been clear to any other Asgardians that he was a Frost Giant. He wondered, and often thought that they probably hadn't suspected such an outlier in their midst, if it had been so obvious that even Odin and Frigga had flinched at every display of his outrageous differences.

These mysteries haunted him in the dark hours of night and trailed idly after him in the sunlight of the day, and Loki had no respite from them.

It was all a very infuriating, awful thing, and he could barely stand it, especially when his distorted reflection (fractured pieces of the mirror, leftover from the one night that he'd lost his temper and driven his fist into its shining surface) lied to him still, showing him the dark indigo sin of his past, bloodied eyes and tear-stained face. It displayed to him the worst creature of his nightmares, the hideous beast he could not escape, rather than the face everyone else had seen for years and years (the face everyone had looked upon and dismissed, the face everyone had disdained, the face everyone had labeled_ different_).

When those thoughts, poisonous and slithering, sank their deadly fangs into him, he smiled, wishing he could see their faces _now_, as they looked upon him _now_, as they saw the truth behind Odin's horrible lie, just as Loki saw it in the broken mirror.

Deep down, though, he knew what they'd act like, what their expressions would be, what they'd say. It would be the same as what Loki himself acted like (repulsed), exactly the same as his own expression (disgusted). Tired of thinking about it all, and so very tired of staring at himself in the mirror, Loki shook his head at his reflection, grimacing as the eyes caught his attention once more.

His blood, traitorous even as it flowed through his veins, boiled with rage, and he drove his fist in the remaining shards, hearing the satisfying tinkle of glass breaking and clattering to the floor.

It was clear to him now, just as it must have been to others, how vastly different he was, and he hated every second of such an aching revelation.


	18. Admiration

Bucky woke early enough to watch the sun rise and splash vivid, pink and orange colors across the sky, pouring a purple glow onto the clouds hanging, fluffy and suspended, high in the air. He ran a slow hand through his mess of dark hair, remembering the exact way Steve had done it the night before, and let out a quiet, soothing sigh as he glanced down at the slumbering form beside him, all sharp bones and skin, glinting strands of his blond hair basking in the dim sunlight just starting to peek through the sheer window curtains.

Splayed out on his stomach, Steve looked immensely peaceful, and Bucky was glad to see him appearing, for once, healthy-or as healthy as he _could_ appear. The jutting angles of his shoulder blades were obvious as Bucky lightly ran a finger over the edge of one where the cover refused to hide them from view, and he smiled as the man stirred in his fitful sleep, his hands tucked safely under the downy pillows beneath his small head.

Bucky threw his oceanic gaze upward to catch the first glimpse of the sun and smiled that lazy, slow smile Steve had so greatly adored in all their years together. He traced the shy, seeking rays along their path, watching as they slithered over Steve's pale skin and lit it with a golden haze.

He ran his fingertips over the warming spot there, gently moving his touch across the sun-soaked expanse, his heart fluttering within the tight confines of his chest.


	19. Memory

On a rather uneventful morning during the biting chill of winter, Steve found himself in true danger of earning a broken bone after Bucky threw a punch (with his metal arm, no less) as part of their training session, so that Steve could test his reflexes just as Bucky tested his strength; needless to say, Bucky might have hit him a bit too hard, and the force of it sent Steve back at least ten feet, shoes glancing over the mats below before he finally landed without an ounce of grace flat on his back.

He scrambled to his feet, ready to reach up and parry another blow just as he might have done had it been two years ago, if Bucky wasn't really Bucky and was trying with all his might and effort to kill Steve (_you're my mission)_. He didn't, though, and stayed his hand, glancing up through the pain coursing through him to see Bucky, his familiar arm stretched out so that he could help him up, his dark hair cut short, his smile triumphant. Steve smiled, wincing as he took the offered help, and let Bucky pull him to his feet.

"Too much?" Bucky asked quietly, and Steve let out a hearty laugh, nodding as he clapped Bucky on the shoulder, eliciting a reluctant, odd kind of smile he'd only ever witnessed from this new person, this changed assassin that was once, and could again be, his best friend.

Ever since they'd reunited, Bucky had been subdued, withdrawn, as if emotion was foreign to him. It was a genuine pleasure to see him smiling now, even if it was a hesitant one. Steve, after wiping the sweat from his brow, ran a hand through his hair and threw a brief glance out the nearby window to see fat flakes of snow sprinkling from the sky, blue eyes tracing the movement. He thought of winters long-gone, years past, when Bucky would come to his house, carrying a bucket overflowing with those tiny toy soldiers they'd loved so much.

They'd curl up by the fire atop large, cozy rugs and play battle until Steve's mother called them for dinner, and they'd rush headlong into the kitchen with their bright, young faces and hastily stuff themselves with whatever they could get their hands on so that they could return to their game as soon as possible. He could remember how they'd sit, afterward, listening intently to the crackling of the warm fire, watching how the orange light flickered over the windowpane and painted the snow outside crimson.

Steve, snapping out of his reverie, turned to see Bucky staring longingly at the blanket of snow covering the ground, a wistful gleam in his blue eyes, and in that moment, Steve thought that there was something different, that this wasn't a mere training session between two relative strangers, that it was really Bucky who was before him, and the winter soldier turned to stare at him for a split second before aiming his attention back at the window.

"You're a punk," he laughed out, and Steve was so taken aback that he didn't give a response, and instead stared at Bucky with a wide grin.

"Jerk."

And in that instant, all was right.


	20. Activity

Bucky, unsurprisingly, had scars, some even and straight-evidence of a clean slice or stab-and others jagged and rough. Natasha found that she liked the jagged ones much better, enjoyed running her fingertips over them just to see how he'd react, his eyes closed as if he were unable to see her so close to him, her flesh against his after so long without any human contact, as if he were unable to accept that she might fancy him in such a way.

The raised, bumpy skin felt beneath her touch was warm, and she smiled to herself as she gazed up from one of the lines on his abdomen to stare into his blue eyes, glinting like clear ocean water beneath hot rays of sunlight. Slowly, she drew her hand up to run her pale fingers through his tangled mess of hair, glad for once that he'd cut it short, dipping her face down to capture his lips with hers as he slid his arms around her waist and pulled her to the side so that he was on top of her, resting on his forearms and gazing down at her with thinly-veiled lust.

Her hair, flaming strands pooled about her head and against the cotton pillowcase, felt silken as he idly ran his fingers through it, and in return Natasha lazily drew circles around a healed knife wound at his shoulder. He shivered just the slightest and shot a brief glance at the long scar slithering over her abdomen, just above her navel, and she laughed, a deep, rumbling noise that started in her throat.

Bucky smirked at the sound and flattened his palm against her stomach to run it over the scar. The unspoken similarities between them had just gone up by one, it seemed, and he felt immensely satisfied by the thought as he chuckled, ducking down low to pull her into yet another searing kiss, and she slipped her tongue inside his mouth playfully, eliciting a small moan from the former soldier, who ran his metal hand down her thigh, icy fingers sliding over smooth, heated, milky skin, and she sighed into his mouth, wrapping her legs around his tapered waist to hook her ankles on his defined hip bones.

It was Bucky's turn to sigh, and he kissed her again with added fervor as she bucked her hips-once, twice, three times. He laughed against her warm mouth, and in his exploration of her legs he found another scar, smaller, but no less roughened, and he sent her the most wicked grin she'd ever seen in all of her life as he moved low to trace its odd curves with his lips, hot, moist puffs of breath felt against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, and she gave him a soft smile as she tilted her head back.

He reached up to unclasp the fastenings of her bra in one swift motion with his metal hand, and with the other he hooked his fingers beneath the waist of her underwear to tug them down, and she laughed as he moved over her. She fisted the dark strands of his tousled hair in her palm and her eyes fluttered closed as she craned her neck so that he could trail wet kisses down its side, savoring how deliciously pale and soft her skin felt beneath his mouth.


	21. Melting

Ever since he'd met the young and bright Sif, Loki had always regarded her as tempered, a steady flame, burning up everything around it just slowly enough that notice was only taken when it was too late. For most of the years after, he'd stayed true to that belief, known that Sif was made stronger by whatever she experienced, known that she was the epitome of strength itself. She was to be both admired and envied.

Later, when Loki found himself in the hormonal, stressful throes of adolescence, he realized how wrong he'd been, on a chilly day in the middle of the coldest winter they'd ever had, snow blanketing the ground in thick, fluffy mounds of white. A green scarf wrapped snugly about her pale, ivory-skinned neck (compliments of one mischievous teenager), Sif had been shivering uncontrollably as they took a casual stroll through the nearly abandoned square, the only people out and about in Asgard's roughest winter.

Loki, wearing only his usual leather, had felt completely comfortable in the frigid air, and Sif had eyed him warily every now and then, as if he might turn blue and keel over at any second, and he'd watched as the falling snow dotted the fur of her cloak and made her ebony hair look darker than midnight. Squinting against the blinding light of the illuminated snowfall, he'd brushed a flake from her flushed cheeks and her light gaze had widened noticeably.

There had been flecks of snow on his own face, covering his lips, and yet they hadn't melted against his skin, and he'd smirked, about to wipe them away with the back of his hand. Sif, though, with all of her grace and speed, had leaned up to meet his lips with her own and the heat of her kiss, searing and nearly unbearable, had melted the snow instantly.

When at last she'd pulled away, albeit reluctantly, he'd still had his eyes open, pupils blown large as he stared, and in that soft gaze of hers was a steel he'd never noticed before. He'd been wrong, Loki had realized.

Sif was not a constant, destructive force; she was a wild, untamed thing, and it shone so very vividly in both her sharp eyes and wicked smile.


	22. Lost

"I personally prefer green, since it highlights your hair so well, but red suits you, too," Loki offered nonchalantly as he picked at a speck of dirt beneath his nails, features pulled into a slight scowl as he only managed to drive it deeper into the quick. Sif, throwing her two dresses down in genuine anger, curled her hands into trembling fists and let out a shaky sigh.

"Leave me alone," she spat out bitterly, and he whistled, long and low, as he looked up at her, the indecision clear on her face. Her eyes darted from the emerald dress splayed out on the covers to the crimson, glittering one beside it, both made of the finest silk money could buy, and she shook her head, her dark locks, swept into a classy bun at the base of her skull with curling tresses hanging on either side of her face, shivered from the movement.

Ripples of candlelight reflected against the smooth shine of the strands, and Loki distracted himself by watching it, a tender, odd smile coming to his lips. Sif ran her slender fingers over the familiar material of the green attire, closing her eyes against the wave of memories surfacing at the mere contact. Loki tilted his head, captivated.

"Then again, Thor _does _enjoy red, and if you're going to be courting His Royal Highness, you might want to stick to his favorite color," he continued, and the edge to his voice, the familiar attitude, was lost to the tinge of sorrow Sif detected, and her eyes flew open to meet his own, sad and longing and remorseful, "Jane never did wear the color; at least it won't remind him of the deceased mortal."

She gazed at him for what felt like hours, tears welling in her eyes, and gently felt the soft, foreign texture of the blood-red gown, biting her bottom lip absently. Loki broke eye contact, returning his attention to his irritated fingernail, and Sif wiped away the droplet of water that had trailed an icy line down her cheek.

"Go away, Loki," she murmured hoarsely, and he gave her a hurt look before nodding in reluctant assent, dissipating from the air as if he'd never been there at all, and Sif, with her lonely, melancholic, ancient soul, knew that he really hadn't.

After all, the dead could not converse with the living.


	23. Confident

Bucky had only ever had one true friend, and he'd valued that relationship above all else, knowing that it had been his anchor, a steady, reliable thing to turn to. Steve, on the other hand, had considered that friendship a godsend, salvation in times of great need, a true and merciful miracle.

Throughout all the years after their slow, lazy childhood together, the bond only strengthened, and in the rush of emotion that Steve felt, the coming darkness descending upon them as Bucky's grip on the bar slipped, it all came to him, memories and moments captured within his mind, flashing before his eyes as he watched his best friend plummet into nothingness, helpless to save him, helpless to pull him from the depths as Bucky had done for him time and time again. I

n the silence, the fear and sorrow and desperation, of all the seconds after that painful, awful second, Steve lived half a life, and closed his eyes to bask in the eerie quiet just before the breaking, screeching, dying sound of the plane's crash into the ice.

And in Steve's new life, he'd been even lonelier than he'd felt after Bucky's death, going through the motions and taking his place as a leader and finding, perhaps, a few new friends along the way.

Then, there was Bucky, tossed carelessly into his life like some ironic slap in the face, and Steve was ten years old again, attempting relentlessly to beckon his best friend from his perch atop a rather high tree branch (Steve couldn't climb that high. Bucky wasn't about to move from his spot. It was cold down there in the throes of winter, so cold that Steve wanted to go inside, but not without Bucky).

He was ten years old and praying that Bucky would return to him, but Bucky wasn't himself; he was distant, empty, the shadowy ghost of what he'd once been, but Steve wouldn't give up.

Suddenly, but with certainty, he spotted the familiar, bright glimmer in those blue eyes, dots of light peeking past the darkness, and _knew_.

Bucky wasn't gone entirely, and Steve was absolutely sure that he could get him to remember, that he could lure him back, that his long-time friend could be returned to the world he'd left behind so many years ago.


	24. Trials

The girls of Avengers Tower, though constantly stressed to their utmost point, often did things together, untied by either their own endangerment or that of their significant others and teammates. It was a very helpful thing, mostly, but the men didn't enjoy the clique so much when they were in the middle of an argument, or when suspicion fell upon them regarding who ate the last poptart.

Such situations were made all the more difficult when it was the women against the men, and today had been no different, when Natasha, shrugging on a dark sweater to stave off the chill of the fresh winter, had spotted a small, unsuspecting hole in the wall of her bedroom. Upon further inspection, they'd all decided that it must have been a peephole, and at the guys' denial, and incredulity at such an idea, they'd all forgotten about it and felt much better when Tony had patched up the hole, rolling his eyes.

"Really, Nat," Clint had told her, frowning and shaking his head as she'd looked to him teasingly.

"I bet you did it," she'd retorted, kidding.


	25. Practice

"I am _not_ your dart board," Bucky ground out, annoyed, and stiffened as another knife went soaring past his ear to bury itself in the wall beside him. Natasha, another throwing dagger already positioned in her hand, shook her head with a small smile.

"You don't throw _knives _at dart boards, James," she murmured amusedly, and sent another knife his way. He didn't even flinch when it landed just below the junction between his legs, and she let loose a hearty laugh at the incredulous expression dawning on his face.

"That was rude," he called out, and she sauntered over to him, eyes bright and mischievous as she stopped just inches from his face, leaning up on her tip toes to meet his lips.

"You're _such_ a dart board," she breathed against his mouth, and his laughter, deep and contagious, sent pleasant shivers to her very core.


	26. Passwords

"I bet it's some dumb thing like _America_ or something," Tony offered disapprovingly as Natasha's fingers flew over the keyboard in a hasty attempt to determine Steve's computer password, "or _football_. Try it."

Frowning as she tried both the passwords only to have her access, once again, denied, the redhead sent her teammate a withering stare.

"Why do I even listen to you?" She turned her attention back to the screen, a look of deep concentration on her face as she put herself in Steve's shoes, thinking how he might see the world, how he might think.

With his legs lazily thrown over the back of the nearby couch, Clint munched on potato chips, immensely relaxed as he rested his head against the arm, holding up a crumb-covered hand in his friends' general direction.

"Try _Falcon_," he suggested through his mouthful of chips, and she rolled her eyes at him, shaking her head even though he couldn't see the response, and at the silence he just shrugged to himself and went back to eating.

Natasha typed in _Bucky_, _supersoldier, 1941serum_, and _thelivinglegend_, but came up empty yet again, sighing in reluctant defeat. Tony, who'd been crossing and uncrossing his arms impatiently and sidling over to Clint every now and then in order to steal a few chips, dramatically let out a loud breath and leaned over to type _avengersrule_ into the password space, and smirked triumphantly as the desktop screen appeared.

Natasha, amused, looked up at him with a small smile, and he laughed.

"I'm not the only one that shares the opinion, ok?"


	27. Caught

She liked to imagine that she could see his eyes in the darkness, that she could spot the familiar blue twinkle in the shadows of night. It was a fine sentiment, really, and one she could hardly afford; her life didn't accommodate such things. But Bucky was an exception, really. Hadn't he always been? The thought that blossomed in her mind whenever the word_ love_ was mentioned, the face that surfaced in her mental picture book of images and memories whenever she thought of happiness and all that it entailed.

So, it came as no surprise that she succumbed so easily to him, each and every time, all the while telling herself that it would be the last. It was a very risky and potentially costly lifestyle, she had to admit, but so immensely rewarding.

Natasha smiled as she watched him, bathed in early sunlight, sleep soundly beneath the covers, breathing so slowly, rhythmically, that she could count the pauses in between. It was the kind of peaceful, morning-after scene that you might find in perfect, fairytale-life movies, but she didn't have a single problem with that.

Suddenly, a knock came at the door, and her eyes widened as the knob turned. There was only one person that could be knocking on Bucky's door so early, and Natasha wasn't exactly keen on him seeing them both in bed.

The door swung open and Steve's friendly face appeared, bright eyes rounding in shock at what he saw, and Natasha, one regrettably thin sheet wrapped around her body, shuffled over to him as his cheeks reddened noticeably. He averted his gaze as she slid past him and out the door, giving him a teasing salute before turning to disappear down the hallway, and Steve turned back to see Bucky, still fast asleep in his nest of covers.


	28. Polite

He had once likened the exact color of her irises to a stormy sky, and upon uttering such sentiments she'd slapped him gently on the arm, as if the words could be offensive to her. He'd scoffed, and had spitefully kept any and all compliments to himself, and they'd gone through their days in a steady, warm kind of silence. His willpower, though strong, quivered now, for her eyes were even brighter than they'd been before, her smile even wider and her long locks even silkier.

He ached to comment on them, to watch his words unfurl within her mind, but he stayed his tongue and merely traced her movements as she ran a thin comb through the ebony strands falling past her shoulders. He recalled the day's events, a day which had, for the most part, been completely uneventful, save for the glorious prank he'd pulled on Thor and his mother.

"To be fair, mother started it with questioning the amount of effort I was putting into my pranks," he reminded her casually, and Sif threw her head back to laugh, her lips curled in the perfect way he'd admired for so long, her neck craned at just the right angle that her curtain of hair held the light beautifully, and he smiled at her, unable to resist letting a few kind words slip past. "

I do love your laugh," he murmured sweetly, and she turned her head to stare warmly at him. Perhaps, he thought, Sif wasn't entirely against _all_ compliments.


	29. Desperation

He'd heard the shot, had heard the loud echo and the subsequential silence, and maybe in between the two there might have been a barely audible, surprised gasp, but he'd been mostly ignorant to it. Only when he'd turned to check that Betty was still at his side had he seen it.

A blossoming splotch of bright crimson was spreading at the front of her shirt, the soaked cotton material of her pale violet button-down stuck to the skin of her chest as she stumbled back. She glanced up at him, unblinking and wide-eyed, her rosy lips fallen open in equal parts shock and pain, and the wind rolled across the busy field they were standing in, tossing the dark strands of her hair about her face, cool and comforting.

Her legs gave away beneath her and he rushed to catch her, ignoring the heavy weight of her in his arms, ignoring the frantic pounding of his heart as he pressed his hand against the wound in a small effort to quell the blood, trying to think.

How could he stop this?

A small, timid idea came to him, but Betty's lips trembled just as her touch on his arm, light and gentle as it had always been, wavered. There were unshed tears lingering in her eyes as she gazed up at him, and a single droplet escaped to roll slowly down her pale cheek. Her body relaxed within his hold before his mind could even register what had happened, and he was left staring down at her with a burning in his own eyes, and his vision blurred before him, her still, staring form swimming in and out of focus as the bullets continued to rain down around them.

Bruce swore he could still feel her pulse fluttering beneath his fingertips, but he knew that it was only his desperate desire for it to do so that kept the thought alive.


	30. Losses

Her red curls were made darker by the overhead clouds, swollen and grey with rain, and they made it look as if there was blood running down her shoulders, aged and browning, as she stood in the middle of the neglected road, watching the headlights disappear from view ahead of her.

The tears streaming down her small cheeks mixed in with the bitterly cold rain and she swallowed the chilled, trembling gasps threatening to pour from her lips.

She had to be strong; it was the only way.

It was hard, though, when you're only friend was staring at you from the back windshield as they were taken away, and it was harder, still, to stand so quietly and perfectly and patiently while waiting for someone else to come and take you away, too.

It was too hard, really, and she hung her head, biting her bottom lip to both stop its shivering and prevent herself from crying out. Her eyes, grey in the dreary darkness around her, were bright and reddened with tears, and her shoulders shook from the effort of staying quiet.

She heard a car pull up, suddenly, beside her, caught the sound of the pounding rain against the hood, and steeled herself, schooling her features and hoping that whoever it was would mistake the salty water staining her cheeks for rain droplets.

A hand fell heavily onto her small shoulder, and she raised her head, staring into the distance where she'd once caught the glimpse of a frowning, grieving face.


	31. Doctoring

Steve had been sporting a black eye and cut lip for over three hours now, certain that with each passing second he could feel the throbbing of his pulse within the wound with higher intensity, and the small gash across the top of his cheekbone stubbornly refused to be ignored. After a long while spent debating whether or not he should slink home and nurse his painful wounds, the fleeting thought that he'd rather not spend the day alone flitted through his mind, and he squared his shoulders as he walked proudly, yet injured, down the familiar path cut through the heart of the city that would eventually lead him to Bucky's apartment.

All around him, girls clad in multi-colored dresses threw him odd looks, their hair pinned up in elegant buns as the summer breeze lifted their skirts higher than they might have wanted. He respectfully averted his gaze and hurried on, letting his feet guide him to the hall with aging floor panels and dim lighting, directly to Bucky's door at the end of it. He raised his arm, albeit reluctantly, and rapped upon the thin door with his bony knuckles, part of him hesitant to let Bucky know he'd been bested again and the other part eager to bask in his company.

It was always like this, really.

The door swung open only seconds after he'd knocked, and Bucky's friendly face appeared, blue eyes bright in the half darkness and features pinched ever the slightest into an expression of concern; he was always expecting Steve to show up with worse injuries than he usually sustained, knowing that someday it would happen, knowing he'd be unable to prevent it. Steve offered a lax, almost sheepish smile, and Bucky ushered him in hastily. "

You know it'll need stitches, right?" he asked plainly as he closed the door gently behind him, and Steve shrugged, taking a quick survey of the room around him to see if Bucky had made any decoration changes, pleasantly surprised to find a recent photo of them at a diner framed and placed carefully upon the coffee table.

"Good thing you know how to do it, then," Steve returned casually, slivers of evening light sneaking past the almost-transparent window curtains to bathe his blonde strands as he turned to gaze at the man he'd known for nearly all his life. Bucky smirked and vanished down a nearby hall to get his supplies as Steve thought of how familiar he seemed, how easily he could recall the texture of his dark hair or the heat of his skin, how simple it was to remember the exact shade of those eyes-so very like oceans, sometimes.

Bucky returned minutes later with a handful of sutures, a glinting hemostat, hydrogen peroxide, and cotton balls, frowning in disapproval as he approached Steve and set them aside to examine the cuts on Steve's face. He brushed the pad of his thumb over the darkening skin around Steve's right eye, ignoring (and secretly enjoying) how slightly Steve shivered beneath his touch, and he smiled down at him, noticing how his thin shoulders lowered in a kind of defeat at knowing that Bucky was aware of the fact that he'd lost another fight.

The purpling, sensitive flesh felt excessively warm, and Bucky pulled his arm away, much to Steve's inward protest, and retreated to the same hall he'd went down only to return with a small bag of ice that he quickly shoved into Steve's small, slender hands. He pressed it to his eye and watched with his other one as Bucky carefully cleaned the cut on his mouth and cheek, biting his bottom lip absently as he concentrated.

"You've really got to stop doing this, pal," Bucky murmured, more to himself than anything, and Steve grinned up at him, a gesture of equal parts gratitude and mockery, shrugging.

"Why would I, when you'll always be here to make it better?"

He certainly didn't miss the wide, softening glance Bucky threw his way, and decided to pretend that the fluttering in his chest was just another usual, abnormal beat of his weak heart.


	32. Driving

Scott, with his adolescent, gangly limbs, looked so very odd in the driver's seat that his father had to stifle his ill-timed laughter and focus on staring straight ahead. Still unaccustomed to the brakes, Scott was constantly pushing too hard on the brake pad, making the car come to awkward, abrupt stops that sent both people flying a bit forward in their seats. It was immensely irritating, but judging by the way Scott's Adam's apple bobbed sporadically, nervously, his father let it slide and held his tongue, wishing he could ease his son's mind.

As Scott was apprehensively preparing to drive through an intersection, the emerald light turned yellow and he slammed his foot down on the brakes as they both went lurching into the dashboard, and the driver behind them leaned irritatingly on their horn.

Scott turned to glance worriedly at his father, frowning.

"Sorry," he sputtered, and the terrified expression on his face was enough to silence the man in the passenger seat, even if he had just been about to tell his son that he hadn't had to stop, since he'd been so close to passing through anyway.


	33. Similar

She was out of control; he knew that now. Jean wasn't _Jean,_ and her eyes weren't really _her eyes_. Something else had taken hold of her, something that had lurked beneath the surface for years, waiting to strike.

_Jean_ was dead_; Phoenix_ was alive, and Scott intended to kill her.

_Now_, he thought, his finger trembling as he tightened his hold on the gun, the trigger held back and the barrel pressed against the pale skin of her forehead, just above eyes that had once been a deep, soothing brown (now overtaken by swirling shadows as the angles of her face became sharper, more malicious).

He took a quiet breath, tears dripping down his face as he looked at her, her fiery hair grown past her shoulders and whirling about her face amidst the heavy wind she was creating.

_It's now or never. _

But Scott couldn't do it, couldn't just murder the woman he'd loved for so long, the one person he'd shared everything with, the girl with the bright eyes he'd planned to spend his life beside. To lose her, to eliminate the even slim chance that Jean could be returned to them, would be his most unforgivable sin.

He couldn't do it, and that hesitation was all she needed. The corners of her blood-red lips curled up just the slightest, and he closed his eyes, hoping the end would be swift, hoping that whatever might remain of the Jean he knew was still caught in there somewhere, merciful and just and murmuring gently in his head.


	34. Endings

Bruce's hand trembled as he clutched steadfast to the gun, pressing it to his forehead as tears flowed down his face, leaving cold, wet trails on his reddened skin. He'd had enough. It was unbearable, to be a monster. It was horrible, to live in such a constant state of fear and anxiety, and he was done.

The rain outside beat hard against the roof of the abandoned building he'd sought refuge in, and it drowned out the heavy sounds of his breathing as he steeled his nerves.

_Time to end it._

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, and pulled the trigger.

There was a loud, echoing roar, and a violent sound, akin to that of tearing.


	35. Realization

It was an instinct, really, to drive the blade into the man's chest, a reflex born after long periods of relentless training and hard-earned survival skills left over from a war he couldn't remember. It was natural, then, to swiftly pull the knife back out, warm blood spurting over his hand as he did so, staining the human flesh as his metal hand remained still at his side.

The one before him, blond hair dirtied and messy from their earlier scuffle, glanced up to stare with bright eyes, his mouth agape with pain and perhaps genuine surprise. He was the mission, the unpredictable variable, the man with the hurt voice and sad eyes that looked at the Winter Soldier as if he might be trying to find something he'd lost. He was the one that Winter thought he might have known, once upon a time.

A face flashed behind his eyelids, thin and sallow but smiling just as brightly as he could, his eyes like oceans and his light hair slicked back in the popular style. The rain beat hard against his frail shoulders, covered only by his favorite tan jacket, and dripped down his face enough to make him look as if he were crying.

The image vanished just as the man reached out with a trembling hand to touch the blood that covered Winter's own, a memory trapped in his fingertips just as it was trapped in their heads, and he stumbled for a moment, his breath caught, before collapsing upon the pavement below, the ghost of his touch still lingering on Winter's hand, and as he gazed down at the fallen soldier, eyes closed as a vivid patch of crimson spread onto his shirt, he knew.

_Steve_, came a sudden thought.

_Steve, his name is Steve, and I'm with him…_

Winter lowered himself onto his knees and pressed his metal hand to the wound, hoping that it might help in some way, that he might be able to salvage this, that he might be able to atone for what had suddenly become his greatest sin.

_…'till the end of the line._


	36. Comradery

"You know," Sam murmured, lifting a pan filled with creamy cake batter off of the table and turning toward the heated oven, "if you want to surprise Steve with this cake, that's great and all, but the second he walks in here, he'll smell it baking." He turned to give Bucky-who was quietly attempting to scrape every last drop of extra batter out of the large bowl they'd mixed the ingredients in with a rather large spoon that was far to wide for his mouth, a fact that didn't at all deter him-a doubtful glance, and the former assassin just shrugged and dipped the spoon into his mouth with his metal hand, smiling at the delicious taste as Sam carefully slid the pan into the warming oven, rolling his eyes.

"You'd think you would have had cake batter before now," he mused, and wiped his finger free of a stray droplet of vanilla batter before going over to lean against the counter as Bucky finished his treat.

"I think Steve will like it, the cake and the fact that someone remembered his birthday," he said plainly, a tinge of sadness in his voice, and Sam cleared his throat.

"Or maybe that someone is _around_ to remember his birthday?" Sam asked casually, and Bucky, gazing down into his empty bowl, nodded to himself, expression carefully blank.

"He's been through a lot; this better be the best birthday he's ever had."

That, really, was something they could both agree on.


	37. Deception

His hands, unusually cool against her skin, were calloused in her hold, but she was so used to the roughness that it hardly bothered her, after so many years of feeling them and pressing each finger to her lips as he slept nearby. Thor was, simply, familiar, and it was a nice thing to be, after all. His blue eyes, so very bright and deep like the ocean they'd swam in as children, were only for her, and Sif imagined that he was watching her every movement, every twitch of her lips and every sparkle renewed in her gaze.

Standing before the masses had seemed quite intimidating at first, the thought of being so exposed an intensely foreign and unwelcome concept in Sif's battle-trained mind, but once it was already happening, she thought that it wasn't so bad. Odin, standing before them with such a grand look of approval that it nearly made her blush, had just made their marriage official when Sif thought she saw Thor's eyes change colors.

Staring at him with concern for her own vision and Thor's well being, she squinted and watched as the striking blue melted into a dark forest green, a color so filled with shadows that the light was constantly shying away from it. Sif knew those eyes almost as well as she knew her fiancee's, and she felt the hands wrapped around her own morph into thin, slender ones with pale skin as cold as ice. She pulled herself from his grip with haste and stumbled away just as the broad shoulders grew smaller and the sharp angles began to replace the softly rounded ones of Thor's face. His blond locks were muddied with black, inky strands and everyone around them gasped and backed away, seeking some kind of safety.

_Loki._

His smile was purely wicked, and as Sif glanced down, panicked, at the ring secured about her finger, tears sprang unbidden to her eyes.


	38. Chances

Clint never missed, and he sure as hell never botched missions. He never hesitated, and he definitely never walked away from a job left unfinished.

Honestly, though, there was a first time for everything-and, to be fair, he didn't run into drop-dead gorgeous spies every day, either.

After quickly realizing he'd be woefully unable to take her out from a long distance, due to her seemingly all-knowing nature and infuriating habit of dodging here and there so that no bullet could be trained on her, Clint decided that he needed to be up close and personal, and it wasn't exactly hard, since she apparently didn't see rather handsome looking citizens in her part of town every day (she about told him as much).

The gun was out and pressed directly to her forehead before she could do anything, and her eyes, round and too bright in the shadows of the old warehouse, were filled with what he suspected was genuine surprise and...fear. He saw it there, lurking dangerously, traitorously, and his finger relaxed from the trigger of its own accord. The crimson curls of her hair had tumbled from their bun and framed her pale face, and in the darkness she looked like a fallen angel, in need of saving and desperately longing to save.

He could do it. He could pull the trigger and wipe the spattered blood from his face and go on with his day, back to S.H.I.E.L.D. and back to normalcy.

Or he could take the chance and save this girl with the young eyes and hardened features, the woman with the sharp looks and yearning soul, and take the chance and hope that she wouldn't slit his throat with the knife no doubt kept hidden at her thigh.

He lowered his gun, holstered it, and glanced at her, holding out a welcoming hand. Her expression changed into the most disbelieving thing he'd ever seen, but her eyes-this Clint would never forget-softened as she placed her hand in his and let him pull her to salvation.


	39. Sacrifice

Peggy's wizened skin was soft against his palms as she held steadfast to his hands, cocooned safely and lovingly in his strong embrace as he knelt on the ground at where she'd collapsed.

The silvery curls of her hair, nestled against his arm as he moved it to prop her head up higher, reminded him of all that he'd lost, and the blood coating the front of her shirt, fresh and warm on his skin as it poured from the gunshot wound, reminded him of all that he was losing.

He hadn't known there was a sniper aiming at him, hadn't seen it coming, but Peggy, with her aged sight and fragile heart, must have. She must have seen it.

And so, she was shaking, trembling beneath his touch as he gently stroked her cheek, grimacing as he accidentally wiped a bit of stark red blood on her paling skin. Hot, burning tears dripped from his eyes and made warm trails down his cheeks as he gazed down at her, so different from how she'd been in that picture clipped inside his compass.

She offered him a tender, soft smile, one that spoke volumes of how dearly she'd missed him, one that told of how much she loved him (even still, even after so long and so many memories made without him), one that was falling just as she squeezed his fingers with a strength he didn't know she still possessed.

Then, Peggy's eyelids fell shut and her chest stilled, and Steve hung his head.


	40. Mistakes

Harry had already collapsed upon the concrete before Peter realized what he'd done; it had been necessary, he'd thought, exacting revenge and saving lives at the same time. The bitter memory of Gwen's plummeting body flashed in his mind as he looked at the man he'd once considered his friend, with his blond strands fallen from their usually slicked-back position, his rumpled suit splashed with drops of blood from their earlier fight.

The blue of his eyes, a color Peter could remember being intensely vivid in their youth, was dimmed significantly, and he guessed it was from the transformation Harry'd undergone months ago; the image of Harry's green-gold skin and demented expression still haunted him. He glanced at his hand, still trembling from the effort it had taken to drive the knife directly into Harry's chest, and noticed that the blood, bright red and glinting in the afternoon daylight, was dripping down onto his fingers, small rivers of betrayal.

When he at last returned his attention to his former friend, he realized that Harry was still, glassy-eyed and staring up at the sky, before him, and only then did Peter allow himself to fall at his side. He could hear a young boy's laughter ringing in his ears, and denied the memory further entrance into his mind.


	41. Joking

Steve usually made fun of his unfortunate encounters with the stronger, healthier, more aggressive people that bullied him, and it always irked Bucky to no end. He'd point out the exact spot where he was once beaten senseless as they passed it driving through town, or excitedly tug Bucky out of a building to show him the stain still left over from his major nosebleed after being hit in the face (as if happy he had something to talk about, even if it was negative, and happy to say that he'd fought back, that he was brave and proud of it).

Bucky hated that his friend was always getting kicked around, but could often never be there to help when it happened, and so he didn't think it was funny-at all. But when Steve, his small shoulders looking so ridiculously frail in Bucky's large, roomy car as he sat comfortably in the passenger seat, pointed out another place he'd fought at, he smiled and turned to look at Bucky with very bright, very proud eyes.

"I even got a trash can lid and everything, and it hurt his hand when he punched it."

He laughed to himself, and although Bucky longed to frown and warn Steve against such behavior, he forced a grin and laughed along with him.


	42. Mysteries

Winter didn't know how long he laid there, watching his mission plummet into the water and fall deeper and deeper, down and down, until he decided to dive in after him, his arm throbbing as he forced himself to swim faster and pull the man from his certain death.

He almost seemed familiar, more than ever, with his hair floating all around him and his eyes closed in what looked like a peaceful moment.

_He was young and holding his breath beneath the water, lids fallen shut in concentration and his expression slack, and Bucky thought for a moment that he was dead, his pale hair floating around his head and looking like a discolored halo. Bucky's mother called from the edge of the pool, and he heard her distorted voice from beneath the surface and pulled Steve up with him, both of them laughing as they climbed out. _

It took a lot of his strength to drag him up the bank and deposit him on the muddy soil, ignoring the flashes and images that so frequently took over his mind, and checked to make sure his chest was moving.

It was perhaps even harder than anything else, upon hindsight, to walk away.


	43. Observations

The slivers of moonlight cascading from the nearby windows danced across her pale features and slithered over the bright strands of her hair. Bucky often thought that if he touched the soft, silky curls, he might just burn himself for how closely they resembled actual flames, resting against half of his pillow (she never did keep herself on her side of the bed).

Gingerly, he traced the moonbeams as they bathed her head and neck, careful not to wake her (she was terribly ticklish just across her nose and collarbone, and he'd found it so peculiar upon discovery that he'd pinned her to the bed and spent five minutes tickling her with his metal hand-she'd gotten her revenge the next morning). Her chest rose slowly, soft, deep breathing sounds emanating from her, and the corners of his lips quirked up as he watched her, arms left bare by the sleeveless top she often wore to bed, the milky skin of her shoulders exposed so that he could move to draw lazy circles there with his fingertips.

Natasha stirred, and he froze, propping himself up slowly with his metal arm and holding his breath, and relaxed when she didn't move again. He went back to ghosting his fingers over her heated flesh, wishing he could lean down and press his lips to hers, but knowing it would both pull her from whatever dream she was having and earn him hours of paranoia until she finally exacted vengeance.

So, he settled for gazing admiringly down at her, captivated by the shine of the overhead moon upon her face, content with watching her fall ever deeper into slumber.


	44. Apologizing

Loki wasn't entirely confident in his baking skills, having never before made a cake, and he certainly wasn't confident in Thor's ability to forgive him simply because of a mere dessert. He thought he'd at least try, though.

It had been an accident, truly, to drop the frozen turkey on Thor's foot, and since it was his first Thanksgiving both on Earth and as a reluctantly-welcomed, reluctantly-joined member (helper) of the team, he'd loathed the idea of messing it all up-and he'd done just that.

So, Loki was surveying the fresh cake that had been cooling in its pan upon the table, an icing gun clutched in his hand. He tilted his head and frowned, hoping that his brother liked chocolate cake.

Hours later, when Thor and the team arrived back at the tower, they were all greeted with a lone cake sitting in a container on the counter, and its iced top read:

_Sorry about your foot. -L_


	45. Fondness

It had been a long time since she'd seen him smile like that (a day came to her mind: a snowy sky above them as he toyed idly with a strand of her hair, twirling it about his fingers as they remained splayed out upon the blanketed ground, his grin just as carefree as it might have been if he were still a child).

With his dark hair slicked back in admittedly the neatest style she'd ever seen him with, the angles of his face were more pronounced and the light in his emerald eyes even brighter. Sif felt a similar smile tugging at her mouth as she approached him, and he held out his arm, a familiar and easy joke between them of how the humans often walked with one another in the older days.

She eagerly looped her arm in his and walked with him to the center of the court, aware of countless eyes on her as her silver dress trailed past her, its silken, jeweled designs glittering in the morning daylight. Her dark hair was swept up into an elegant bun that she'd insisted carry some sort of small dagger as its pin-she truly loathed feeling defenseless, and it was nice to have a weapon near, even with a powerful sorcerer such as Loki at her side to keep her safe.

His eyes fell upon the gleam of the knife's tip peeking through her hair as they made their way, and she could have sworn she saw his Adam's apple bob in a desperate attempt to stifle his laughter. He squeezed her arm lovingly, and in that moment she'd never felt more accepted.


	46. Dangerous

Contrary to Bucky's aged admonishment, Steve really didn't seek out trouble; it just had a completely irritating habit of sneaking up on him. The specific trouble sneaking up on him now was a hot, angry, red fire chasing him as he sprinted across the thinly carpeted flooring of some very recently abandoned office level on the third floor of a similarly abandoned building.

Every now and then, during his frantic pacing, a stray flame might lick out at his back eagerly, as if competing for purchase with its fellow fiery companions, and he'd ignore the burn and run faster. He wondered how the office workers ever managed to walk all over the span of the third floor when it was just a single giant room that was impossible to trek across without tiring, but the thought vanished just as another flame lashed out at him, glancing over the surface of his shield.

He unlatched his shield from its place on his back when he began to near the large windows at the very end, remembering how one of the workers had scrambled over as if she might jump from them after seeing the immense fire growing close by. He'd had a hard time evacuating the trapped workers, especially since each floor had housed an unbeatable conflagration, but he'd succeeded, and the very last worker to find safety was out of harm's way now, waiting by the roadside while the police and firefighters anticipated his arrival.

He braced himself with an iron grip on his shield, held before him, and charged at the windows, hearing the crack and shatter of the glass all around him as he was sent flying downward onto the pavement. He landed gracelessly, and slowly rolled onto his back, catching the sound of crunching glass beneath him and wincing with the pain of the fall.

He just had to stop doing that.


	47. Pride

Gwen often entertained herself by watching the little things Peter did, be it around the house or when he was out attempting not to smile as another little boy spoke fondly, as if he knew the man on personal terms, of Spider-Man. Usually, watching him calmed her, filled her with a quiet silence, but now doing so made her heart swell with happiness, for she'd never seen such a beautiful sight in all her life.

There he was, leaning against the door frame of the hospital room as if he might be deciding whether to come in or linger out in the hall, a small bundle of fuchsia blankets cradled gingerly in his arms. Tiny fingers reached out and wrapped securely about his index finger, and he smiled warmly as he gazed down at their daughter with a mix of pride and tearful joy in his eyes. His tousled hair, usually spiked ever the slightest at the front, was flattened from an entire night of sleeping in the most awkward and uncomfortable position in the bedside chair near Gwen, and there was a barely-perceptible shadow of stubble on his face.

He began to talk in soft, low murmurs to the infant in his hold, but his wife, seated atop the hospital bed with her blonde tresses tangled at her shoulders, couldn't make out what he was saying, and she squinted, smiling.

She only hoped their baby girl didn't go climbing up buildings.


	48. Discontent

Fandral often liked to joke about the women he kept company with, commenting on their habits or particularly gleeful behaviors. Loki, completely uninterested with his comrade's endeavors, always cracked a false grin at the stories and quips, knowing that if he ever wanted to keep a friend, he might as well act like one, too.

Thor, on the other hand, always let out a loud, booming chuckle, as if such jests were the most hilarious things to ever be heard, and Loki thought, only once, that he might try that sometime. Instantly, though, he dismissed the idea, knowing that such laughter might genuinely frighten the people around him, for he was the reserved, quiet type-always. Just not around his brother, but that was a different matter.

So, he grinned and laughed lowly, softly, in order to keep their friendship, and it was only years later that he realized the hypocrisy in that situation.

They never laughed at his jokes, and they were most assuredly far better than any Fandral could ever scrounge up.


	49. Accomplice

Sigyn had never been one for his games, honestly, but he'd somehow softened her heart over the years, and now she was nearly just as enthusiastic about his pranks and tricks as he himself was. Loki could recall very fond memories of his wife stifling her ill-timed laughter with her palm pressed to her mouth, eyes wide and glinting with mirth as people around them frantically scurried about in a wild panic caused by the rather abrupt and unexplained appearance of two quite unfriendly snakes at the feast table. It was a moment that never failed to make him grin.

Now, she had become both a supporter and even a planner, and this overjoyed the god of mischief to no end; she was very aware of the fact, and so strove to make him happy at every moment by mentioning his next trick and helping him perfect it. Currently, after a long day of plotting, Sigyn was sashaying across the room in that way she knew Loki was especially fond of, her feet already free of those restricting heels she so detested, which were strewn carelessly into a corner of the room beside the doorway.

She turned her head to cast a loving look behind her, gazing at him as he leaned against a wall with her pale, almost reflective eyes. The corners of her lips curled up just a fraction, and the pale skin of her cheeks darkened as she made her way to the bed and gingerly took a seat at the edge, preparing to retire for the night as she reached up and unwound her hair from its elaborate style.

As she did so, it fell down her shoulders in long, silvery strands, and Loki remembered how silky it felt every time he carded his hands through it, smiling over at her as the memory surfaced in his mind.

She gazed at him thoughtfully during his reverie and finally stretched out a beckoning hand, smirking mischievously for the first time in what felt like ages, and he quickly made his way to her, taking her hand to feel the familiar, heated flesh of her palm and leaning down to kiss her flush on the lips as she returned the gesture with equal fervor. He liked this Sigyn far better than the timid, wide-eyed girl he'd met all those years ago.


	50. Mending

It had become a thing of the past to them, all that Loki had done, a thing reluctantly but surely overlooked after all these years of repentance, a thing Tony was willing to forget if not entirely forgive-some small part of him would never forgive. He was trying, though, and that was all that mattered to Loki, especially when Tony woke to find Loki's familiar eyes shining like fresh-cut emeralds in the early morning daylight sweeping over their shared bed, or when Tony looked over his shoulder to find Loki dressed in casual, human clothes, splayed out upon the couch and staring transfixed at the television screen.

Loki accepted that Tony would never entirely let it go, but the fact that he was so welcome into the billionaire's life was more than enough, and besides, the god had his own demons to remind him of the things he'd done, nipping at his heels as he walked and burdening his shoulders as he slept.

But with Tony, he thought that they might have felt lighter, somehow, that the demons dissipated just as easily as Tony laced his fingers in Loki's own, and that made it all better.


	51. Damaged

Erik remembered the moment he discovered Charles' condition, the moment he caught wind of a professor confined to a wheelchair because he could no longer walk, and the guilt still burdened him, even after all these years, even after all those nights spent wondering how he was, even after all they'd been through.

And now, it was like seeing a ghost from a past he wanted nothing more than to forget, standing with Charles' angry, hurt face expectantly staring back at him as the plane around the rocked dangerously. Erik could never control his temper, and with Charles so furious at him, it was impossible to calm either of them down. All Erik could hear was the guilt rising up within him, the guilt shining in Charles' painfully familiar eyes, so bright and so blue and as deep as oceans, accusatory as they remained unblinking and glinting in the dim light of the plane's interior.

He was walking, and the elation at such a fact should have been enough for Erik, but it wasn't-it would never be enough. Charles gave up his powers, his true gift, so that he could save himself from the damage Erik had wrought, the chaos he'd wrought on them all, and he'd been shut away in a prison for these past years, safely away from any and all repercussions while his friends and comrades suffered the consequences.

There were tears in Charles' eyes by the time Erik realized there were similar tears dripping down his own face, warm and wet as they left cold trails in their wake.


	52. Frustration

When word of their relationship reached the curious ears of a certain Tony Stark, both Loki and Natasha knew they were doomed. The billionaire irritatingly made it his mission to ensure that each member of the team was aware of the rather scandalous situation, and when Clint finally came storming into Natasha's bedroom with his fists clenched and his eyes bright with rage, it had been nearly impossible to calm him.

She'd mentally cursed the narcissistic Avenger in every language she'd known as she'd attempted to explain to Clint why she was seeing Loki. It had all started innocently enough, after they'd been forced to cooperate with the former prince due to a pressing threat that had required all the help they could get, and she'd really hated him in the beginning, had tried her best to ignore his snarky comments and mocking smirks.

She'd also tried to avoid punching him in the face, but had failed miserably when he'd insulted Clint, both of them standing in a lonely hallway in the middle of the night. She could still remember the raw surprise in his green gaze as he'd rubbed his cheek, grinning widely.

It had all gone downhill from there. Clint, as expected, was both furious and incredulous, rushing out of her room to track down Loki and deliver swift justice.

She'd only barely stopped him in time, and could have sworn she heard Tony's distant laughter as they stood before the door to Loki's room.


	53. Necessity

Clint had always known that he was needed, that this Russian beauty-turned-weapon relied on him more than anyone ever would, and that had always given him a specific kind of comfort. To know that his job wasn't just taking orders and killing and fighting and occasionally basking in the glory of saving people-it was a good reminder that there were bright spots in his life. Natasha was one of them; Natasha was the _only_ one, really.

She was the light in the darkness he'd had to pass through more times that he could count, the smile thrown his way in a somber situation he could hardly handle, the comforting hand upon his own when the nightmares dug their hooks deep in his mind. She'd never survive without him-that is, she'd never be the same. Natasha was, if nothing else, enduring, but if she lost him she'd live her life just like she'd lived it before she'd met him: empty, barely loving, barely alive, and hollow.

It was something Clint was certain of. As time went on, though, as he fought at her side and witnessed her immense capability to raise his spirits and guide him in the dark, as she saved him time and time again, he realized that as much as Natasha needed him, he needed her a dozen times more.


	54. Confusion

There was a lot about Midgard that Thor understood: the technology (an antiquated system that Asgard had used and discarded years ago), the odd turn of phrases, and the strange clothing that he actually quite enjoyed. He'd adjusted well to the realm and its inhabitants, all its culture and everyday objects. There was one thing of Midgard, though, he feared he would never comprehend: the women.

If he hadn't inadvertently insulted Jane yesterday morning by commenting on how he actually liked crispy bacon, he would still have been confused by Natasha's display of aggression as he accidentally woke her at four o'clock in the morning while he was training with Steve.

He couldn't understand it; most people were thrilled to hear you compliment their cooking, and everyone he'd known in Asgard was always awake at that time of night, either feasting, training, or out enjoying the early morning darkness.

He could also never really understand why Darcy felt the need to walk down one of the many halls in Stark Tower with a mere towel loosely wrapped around her frame and a toothbrush stuck in her mouth, her sopping wet hair pinned up close to her head.

Asgardian women clung to decency, always, and never openly displayed their nightly habits to near strangers.

It was a curious thing, indeed.


	55. Double-Take

The first time Loki could remember ever taking a second glance at Sif was during the celebratory feast of Thor's adolescent birthday, when the young prince was just beginning to consider his responsibility as future king of Asgard (and promptly deny its existence in favor of acting reckless, much to Frigga's ire). Loki was only just a bit younger than his brother, then, and far more responsible than Thor could possibly ever be in all his life, or at least that was how the trickster saw it.

Thor was far too busy with maidens and sparring sessions and any and all kinds of behavior that landed him in a spot of trouble, and yet somehow he'd managed to capture the relentless attention of Lady Sif, a young, aspiring warrior around their age. She had long, silky, ebony locks (compliments of Loki himself) and grey eyes that seemed very bland to Loki, having grown up around mostly vivid blue irises for all his life.

Her skin was often pale and she usually wore some article of clothing that was colored bright red, like the deepest crimson, to attract Thor's attention (it was, after all, his favorite color). In all the years he'd known the girl, she'd been pining after his princely brother from day one while Thor remained frustratingly oblivious to the entire ordeal, and nearly every one of her actions outside the sparring court reinforced the idea the she was completely smitten with him.

But tonight, oddly enough, Sif did not don her usual red attire, but instead wore a vibrant green dress made of deep, rich material that Loki had never seen before, hair curled and pulled over one shoulder to rest flat against the emerald cloth of her gown. Her eyes barely ever darted over to seek Thor out, either, as she entered the feast hall, and this surprised Loki.

It was, perhaps, the first moment he realized that not only did Sif look absolutely exquisite bathed in the color that happened to be his most favorite, but she also held a certain beauty about her, a beauty most intensified in those grey, previously bland eyes of hers.


	56. Mourning

Thor couldn't accept it, couldn't come to terms with the reality of it all, couldn't believe that he'd let it happen. He could have done it, somehow, he kept telling himself, could have reached out with his free hand to grip Loki's wrist. He could have pulled him up to safety, could have prevented this tragedy, could have convinced Loki not to throw himself into the dark abyss.

He could have, _should have_, stopped it, but he didn't and Loki was gone and the world was left darker because of it. He could still recall the bright shine of the unshed tears lurking in Loki's green eyes, the pallor of his cheeks as the wind tossed his dark hair all about his head, the sadness in his face as Odin denied him. It caused a cold sting in his heart and a terrible sadness, heavy and unforgiving, to rest upon his shoulders.

It was actually quite unbearable, and Thor would often find himself just barely resisting the urge to visit the spot at the edge of the Bifrost bridge, where Loki had fallen, where Thor's heart had broken. Even Frigga's comforting words and motherly, loving gestures could not quell his grief.

After months of living life without the trickster, Thor soon realized that he'd have no choice but to get accustomed to looking over his shoulder and seeing empty space, that he'd have to simply accept the absence in his life, that he'd have to live without a brother.


	57. Warning

"Don't do it, Clint," Tony warned casually as he threw back another glass of scotch. Pepper smacked him lightly on the arm and murmured, "I really think you should lay off the alcohol with all these superheroes roaming your house, Tony."

He smirked up at her from her odd seat upon the back of the couch on which he was splayed out, while Thor lounged on the other end, resting his eyes. Clint, perched atop a bar stool, was examining an odd little device no larger than his palm, with a clamp on one end and a bright red button on the other. He thought that there might be a vent on its underside as he heard a tiny fan whirring within it, ignoring Tony's words completely.

Natasha watched him with interest as she sat gracefully on the couch opposite the one Tony, Pepper, and Thor had claimed, while Bruce balanced precariously on the couch arm. Steve leaned against one end of the counter that Clint was near, eyeing him and the gadget he was holding warily.

"I can keep an eye on them just fine, Pep," Tony replied lowly as Clint continued his efforts to inspect the mechanism. He glided his finger over the red button and Tony turned to roll his eyes at the archer.

"I wouldn't," he warned a second time, but Clint glanced up at him impassively for a brief moment, blinking, before turning his attention back to the button, which he promptly pushed. Natasha watched as the device lifted out of Clint's grasp, apparently propelled by the fan within it, which was popping out from beneath it as the vents parted to make way for it (it reminded her of the Helicarrier, somehow).

The clamp opened up in Clint's direction as he gazed with wide, surprised eyes, and it moved to attack him, latching on to wherever it could reach as he frantically tried to grab it and toss the offending thing away.

The team watched him struggle for a few moments, silent, before they all began to laugh.


	58. AU

As much as Natasha liked the look of her new heels when she walked down the street, and as much as she liked the approving looks of the men and the envious looks of the women when they cast glances down at her feet, she couldn't stand to wear them and wondered how any other lady in the world could. They pinched her skin and made her arches ache, and so whenever she came home they were the first things to go, tossed carelessly across the room as if she hadn't really paid a large amount of money for then.

She'd plop down on the queen-sized bed she shared with her husband and let the day slip away from her, household chores be damned; it was nice to relax every once in a while.

With her knee length dress fanned out around her, its bright floral pattern standing out against the mellow green of the covers, she reclined her head back upon the pillows, smiling to herself. There were noises in the main hall; she could hear them and yet she remained calm, knowing the sounds by heart. Footsteps softly echoed throughout the kitchen and through the hall leading to their bedroom, and in the doorway appeared a familiar face, dark hair slicked back and blue eyes bright as a smirk flashed across his handsome face.

It had become a routine, sometimes, for him to sidle over to where Natasha lounged and take a ginger seat beside her crossed legs to place a hand on one of her sore feet. He was far too good at giving massages; she always wondered where he'd learned it so well.

Usually, he wore suits to work, but today he had on a grey sweater vest with a white dress shirt underneath and equally grey pants. She smiled up at him as he kneaded her throbbing arches and toes, brining relief with every movement of his fingers.

"You know, James," she murmured sweetly, "you should really go into the massage business." He laughed at her and shook his head, watching the way the evening light pouring from the nearby window bathed her scarlet hair in golden color; it was pinned to her head on one side while the long curls curved atop her shoulder on the other.

"There's no business for that," he returned mockingly, and she rested her weary eyelids, still grinning, to listen to the melodic sounds of his soothing voice as he recounted the day's events.


	59. Haunting

When Steve found himself left alone and unbothered by the everyday trials and pressures of modern life, it took him a long time to realize the peace around him and just relax; it took him even longer to close his eyes and ignore the memories allowed to come to his mind at the lack of something else to be concerned with. They were relentless in those hours, taunting and lurking near him at all times, constant reminders of what he didn't have anymore, of what he'd become, of all that had changed.

More often than not, these moments kept him up at night, and he'd have to rush to the bathroom for solitude, splashing cold water on his face and relishing in the split-second shock it gave him. It was a focus point, really, a distraction from all the things he knew to be gone, from all the ways he knew to be dead and forgotten, from all the different angles and lines on his face that he could map out if he wanted to.

He had to take a slow, calming breath and try to ignore the reflection he saw in the bathroom mirror, water droplets rolling down his face in small streams, blue eyes bright and alert. He had to ignore the memory of Bucky, already fading, and had to ignore the taste of Peggy's lips, still haunting him. He had to ignore the touch of Dr. Erskine's finger against his chest as he'd died there on the floor, had to ignore the rush of icy water and bitter cold as darkness had fallen upon his thoughts.

Steve had to instead focus on Natasha's smile, Sam's determination, and the flash of remembrance in Bucky's eyes.

He had to keep looking ahead; it was the only way to keep himself from being caught in the past.


	60. Steady

Steve was beginning to realize, slowly, that things lost long ago could be salvaged, in some way or another. He was beginning to understand that life wasn't black and white anymore. He was beginning to grasp the idea of loneliness, as well, far stronger than any he'd felt before. All because of a blue-eyed former assassin. All because of a flash of memory that came over his cold features.

All because of a moment on the bank, wet footsteps fading from his range of hearing. But all was not lost, in the end.

It had taken a while for Bucky to come around and finally remember who he was, had taken years to pick up the pieces, had taken all they had to figure out where they belonged in the world. Steve had finally told Bucky all of his worries, all of his revelations about the way life was now, and Bucky had finally released the guilt he'd carried for so long, the burden of blood staining his unwilling hands.

And after all of that, after the freedom and the fading melancholy, Steve and Bucky found a way to be that wasn't reminiscent of the times they'd lost together. Their way wasn't picking themselves up from alleyway concrete and dusting off their jackets, Steve's bloody lips and black eyes and lopsided grin. Their way wasn't a slap on the shoulder and laughs all through the night, staying up on New Year's Eve just to pretend like it made a difference to them.

Their way was burning the cookies Natasha had jokingly given them the recipe for, losing the dog for a day and having heart palpitations every five seconds, blowing out nearly one hundred birthday candles because Bucky thought it would be funny, and breaking half the ornaments because Steve tripped and took the Christmas tree down with him. Their way was truly their own way, not some half-sickly, shunned boy struggling to fit in and a friend going off to war.

Their way was new, and that was all that they'd ever needed.


	61. Dancing

Peggy was all warmth and welcome and love, with her arms wrapped around Steve's neck as they danced in the kitchen, flour dusting her cheeks from where he'd laughingly sprinkled it across her skin. His blond hair was made paler by it, as well, from where she'd thrown it at his face before darting behind the counter in mock fear. He swung her around as they flitted from spot to spot, smiling with their noses pressed together, lips mere inches apart.

She basked in the heat of his skin, the familiar comfort it offered her, and he wove his fingers through the silky, smooth strands of dark hair, moving his head down to gingerly kiss her collarbone as they swayed in time to the music emanating from the radio on the counter. He laughed against her skin and the vibrations sent pleasant shivers through her.

She hugged him closer just before he pulled away, albeit reluctantly, to spin her around, her dress fanning out at the hips. Her laughter, so loving and gleeful, encouraged him, and he brought her close so that he could dip her torso down, hands firmly wrapped around her waist so that she wouldn't fall, her head reclined as she gazed at him with nothing but utter trust in her eyes.

Steve had never felt more love for her than in that moment, and she reached up to lightly stroke his cheek, smiling tenderly, hearts both beating in tandem with the music surrounding them.


	62. Power

After introducing Bucky to the wonders of spray butter and all the advancements popcorn alone had made over the years they'd both missed, Steve sat down with Bucky upon their small sofa to watch yet another 'Star Wars' movie, with the 'Lord of the Rings' trilogy sitting in a pile on the coffee table for later.

With full stomachs and undoubtedly high blood pressure, they watched and watched until night descended upon the roomy apartment, content to sit there for as long as it took, both men addicted to Frodo's quest as the moonlight cascading through the slivers of revealed window bathed the living room in a faint white glow.

Bucky, bright eyes wide with captivated attention, was so caught up in the ending that he failed to notice Steve's sly sideways glance in his direction, the small twitch at the corners of his lips, and the tell-tale softening of his blue eyes.


	63. Aftermath

After introducing Bucky to the wonders of spray butter and all the advancements popcorn alone had made over the years they'd both missed, Steve sat down with Bucky upon their small sofa to watch yet another 'Star Wars' movie, with the 'Lord of the Rings' trilogy sitting in a pile on the coffee table for later.

With full stomachs and undoubtedly high blood pressure, they watched and watched until night descended upon the roomy apartment, content to sit there for as long as it took, both men addicted to Frodo's quest as the moonlight cascading through the slivers of revealed window bathed the living room in a faint white glow.

Bucky, bright eyes wide with captivated attention, was so caught up in the ending that he failed to notice Steve's sly sideways glance in his direction, the small twitch at the corners of his lips, and the tell-tale softening of his blue eyes.


	64. I Am Groot

Rocket, ever protective when it came to certain trees, had both his arms wrapped guardedly around a potted plant. Now, to any outside onlooker, said potted plant would seem completely normal, a tiny tree just starting to grow amidst the dirt and ceramic, but to the Guardians of the Galaxy and, most importantly, Rocket Raccoon, that little plant was the most precious thing the world had ever possessed.

If one looked close enough, they could just make out small, beady black eyes and a rounded head, could catch glimpses of movement in the minuscule branches (like arms waving back and forth), and might think themselves crazy for seeing such things.

But in reality, that plant was a baby Groot, just starting to grow after sacrificing his life for his friends and comrades, just starting to get bigger and bigger until he'd no longer need the pot to hold him. Rocket would see to it that he was safe, as he always had before, and it was much easier, admittedly, with Groot being so conveniently sized. Rocket would wake up in the morning and hunt down the greenest, brightest leaf he could find hanging from the healthiest looking tree around, sometimes hunting for half an hour until he discovered the perfect one. He'd return to the kitchen where he'd last left Groot and feed him the leaf, enough to fill his small stomach for a long while, and then go about his day, occasionally checking that Groot was comfortable and happy with the music playlist of the day (he was always dancing when Rocket came in to check on him, smiling with those bright eyes).

When the rest of the team was up, he'd bring Groot into the sitting area to be with them all, and when night finally came, he'd carry Groot and his planter, carefully, with both hands, making his way to his room and small bed. He'd set his friend down on the nightstand and play soft, low music so as not to wake everyone else, and he'd fall asleep next to a swaying, beaming tree baby.


	65. Visitor

Steve, having been hunting down Bucky for a long time now, was beginning to feel depressed, as if the entire endeavor wasn't worth it, as if he'd never find his long-lost companion.

It was starting to all feel so immensely tedious and pointless; Bucky was evading him. It had been that way for at least two years now. Steve had almost given up, had almost abandoned the only thing he'd ever known, but in his darkest moment a presence at his door lured him deep from his reverie in the middle of the night.

It was a surprise, certainly, to pad across the still unfamiliar carpet of his still unfamiliar apartment in nothing but his boxers, opening the door with a groggy slowness, his blonde hair mussed from the countless times he'd run his hand through it during the night. And there was Bucky, hair cut shorter and eyes significantly brighter, hands clenched into nervous fists at his side as he stood in the partial shadows of the hall.

Steve's breath left him in a great sigh and instantly, with complete and utter abandon, he smiled, his sorrow melting away; he was home.


	66. Party

Steve couldn't keep the silly grin off his face, couldn't hide the slight mortification shining in his blue gaze, and knew that Bucky saw his efforts to quell his embarrassment, his cheeks reddening as the cake was brought in with what looked like exactly ninety-six candles stabbed into its chocolate-y surface. Steve glanced up at his long-time friend, who grinned teasingly at him and shrugged while he laid the cake and its large platter upon the table.

The rest of the team was distractedly gathered in the living room just beside the kitchen he and Bucky were in, and Steve could hear their excited cheers as they watched a sports game on TV, awaiting the announcement of the cake's arrival. Bucky had been going out of his way to make this a special birthday for Steve-putting those candles on the cake to mock him, decorating the entire house with banners and balloons alike (all with personalized messages), buying Fourth of July confetti to throw once Steve blew out the candles (Steve had seen a bag of the red, white, and blue paper peeking out of Bucky's back pocket earlier in the day and had assumed his plan), and making sure Steve was wearing appropriately dapper clothing for the occasion.

Despite the awkwardness and the slight humiliation at being so heavily fussed over, Steve rather enjoyed his birthday, and he didn't have to worry about his laughter (when Bucky decided to toss up the confetti in his fit of euphoria) being genuine-the contented grin came over his face just as easily as he would have slipped on his favorite leather jacket.


	67. Relief

After the betrayal, after the plunge and the shock and the confession and the tears, Simmons was beside herself with grief and worry, hating Ward more than she ever thought one could hate a person, wishing every cruel, twisted, dreadful thing she could upon him and his traitorous life. That was the least of her concerns, though. Fitz, fresh from his long hospital stay, was expected to arrive any minute, and she stood stock still before the door he'd walk through soon enough, heart racing with anticipation and mind whirling at the possibilities, the awful possibilities, that her beloved Fitz would never be the same after the oxygen deprivation he'd suffered beneath the ocean's unforgiving waves.

The fear haunted her nights and mocked her during the day, distracting her from work, from any progress she might have made, and it overwhelmed her at times. _Fitz_. Fitz who loved her, Fitz who stood by her, Fitz who had been prepared to give his life for her. So caught up in her nearly paralyzing fear was she that Simmons failed to notice a familiar figure pass through the doorway in front of her, limping with a sling hugging his arm and shoulder and several cuts marring his face and hands.

She blinked, pulled from her reverie at the apparently abrupt sight of him, just before her with a hesitant, nervous smile on his face, eyes shining with affection as they fell upon her. She could have sworn her heart skipped a beat, stomach plummeting as her breath rushed from her body.

_That smile, those eyes._

He was alright, she thought.

_Fitz was fine_.

It was instinct to run to him, to wrap her arms around his neck, to hug him-wary of his injuries-with a gentle hold, to press her cheek to his and bask in the warmth of his body, to close her eyes and take in the same scent she'd known for years, even if it was tainted with the faint smell of antiseptic.

Slowly, she pulled away enough to gaze happily at him, and in that moment a blush crept into her face. His smile widened into a nearly-teasing grin and he squeezed her arms reassuringly. Simmons had never felt so at home.


	68. Grounded

In her moments of weakness, on those nights that the blood of battle and the stress of living in Asgard became too much, Sif only had to roll over beneath the warm, comfortable covers of her bed to feel at ease, for there beside her rested a familiar, amazing creation-a resolution to any and all of her problems. He was, obviously, much more than that, but she liked to think of him in the persuasive times of night as her saving grace, her steady, balancing rock, her one and only-and he was, truly.

Thor, her long-time husband, would always be the sun in her eyes, bright and shining and warm, and she imagined that he loved her just as much; after all, he wouldn't have so eagerly and excitedly married her if he didn't.

And in the shadows of nightfall, in the aftermath of her nightmares and taunting thoughts, she'd reach out to entwine her hand with his, reassured by his protective presence and strong grip as he squeezed her hand, comforting her with a mere gesture. It was enough, then, for her to close her eyes and find solace in the gentle darkness of slumber, with him so near and so loving and so sure of her safety.

With Thor, Sif found peace.


	69. Lovingly

Clint had known Natasha to be a steady presence in his life for many years, the better half of his heart, the helping hand when he knew his own two could not do it alone. She'd been his friend, comrade, companion, and mentor when he'd needed her most, and he liked to think that she saw him in the same light. But there were some days when Nat seemed like _more_, when her grassy eyes shone brighter than they did the day he spared her from a fate he was ordered to deliver, when her lips curled up farther than they usually did whenever he made an offhanded remark, when her skin, so pale and seemingly bloodless (all the more deadly, he'd think), would heat with color when he complimented her ever-changing hair style.

Clint wondered if she ever noticed him staring at the way she laughed down at her feet, on the occasion that he told a joke funny enough to earn such a reaction, and upon further reflection he honestly hoped that she never realized it; it would just be awkward, really.

He was certain she didn't return his feelings; her emotions went so deep that she herself refused to acknowledge them. He guessed that it hurt her somewhere within her soul to remember what she'd done in that bloody past of hers.

But then again, the archer doubted himself when she looked his way with that glance reserved for his attention and his attention alone, when she held steadfast to his hand after hearing him toss and turn in the next room over because of his nightmares (Loki still haunted him, and she'd moved rooms so that she could be nearer to him whenever he needed her), when she tucked an errant strand of crimson behind her ear as she grinned over at him. In those moments, it seemed like she did indeed feel the same, but Clint would never really know-or so he predicted.

Exactly two months and three days later, he'd be proven wrong by the taste of her lips against his, warm and real and smiling against his mouth, the juice from that strawberry she'd eat still clinging to the pink flesh there. He'd be proven wrong by the way her arms would wind about his neck, the way she'd press her body flush upon him, the way he'd feel her heart pounding rapidly in her chest; the sensation would become his lullaby.


	70. Support

"I think he'll come around," Natasha offered solemnly, emerald eyes glittering as she gazed over to Steve, who busied himself with folding his recently washed clothes, "eventually."

Ever since they'd moved in to the Tower, she'd made periodical visits to the Captain's room, wanting to make sure he was handling the situation well. His endeavors to track down Winter had made no progress in recent months and the fact was so obviously weighing him down that she wanted only to comfort him. She hadn't been so desperate to make another person feel better since Clint was brainwashed by Loki.

Steve threw down a partially-folded pair of pants rather roughly atop his bed and sighed heavily, glancing up at her.

"He's made it clear he doesn't want to be found and that he doesn't remember me," he explained, frustrated, "and I don't know how I can convince him." He ran a hand through his light hair and shook his head, giving up on his chore to go sit near Natasha at her perch on the edge of the bed.

"I'm lost here. I want him to come back; I want it to be like it was, but that's impossible."

He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his noise as if to ward off an impending headache, and Natasha frowned, reaching out to grab his hand and squeeze it reassuringly.

"You'll find him, Steve. You're nothing if not determined, and that's enough," he cracked one eye open to watch her smile, and felt, despite his mood, comforted by her gestures of kindness, "Just give it some time."


	71. OC

He ran a hand through the fiery strands of long hair draped over one shoulder, watching the way the light danced along the path his fingers made. Her head was turned, exposing the pale skin of her neck so that he could see the light dusting of freckles there just behind her collarbone.

With his other hand, he traced the patterns they made with a small, absent smile while she cast a sideways glance in his direction, blue eyes bright in the darkness of early morning.

"Do you think Frigga might be cross with you for your trick last night?" she asked calmly, eyes searching his face for any kind of answer, and he shrugged, removing his hands from her hair to gently wrap his arms around her middle, pulling her close as she hugged his neck. She settled against him, laughing as a few stray strands of hair got caught in Loki's mouth and he made a dramatic noise to alert her of the action. After they had found a good position to sleep in, he sighed against her hair.

"I think she'll forgive me; she always does."


	72. Haircut

He stole into her room like a malicious snake, slithering over the floor and through the familiar shadows allowed by the bright, selective moonlight pouring past the windows, and dashed between moonbeams to make his way over to her bed. Sif was fast asleep beneath her covers, curled in a position of protection as her golden curls rested upon the silky pillows under her head, pale lids closed in slumber as he gazed down at her. She was pretty, with her ruby-tinted lips and dark lashes, and Loki knew that she'd be a true beauty in just a few centuries more, a lady fit for royalty.

He wondered if she'd ever acquire the status, for all of her fawning over Thor, the young king-to-be, and smirked at the idea.

Sif…_queen? _

Fierce, competitive, driven Sif standing at Thor's side as he lounged upon his throne?

Neither of them was meant to be there and Loki desperately hoped it stayed that way. Thor was too arrogant to be king and Sif was to haughty, too determined to best everyone else; admittedly, though, they were perfect for each other, and Loki had to quell that sense of indignation that his thoughts betray him in such a way-for he fancied the young girl breathing softly beneath his green gaze.

He imagined that she could be his friend, in due time, and certainly then something more; whether or not it was destined to happen remained a mystery.

Either way, Loki knew that something had to be done about that vanity of hers, and there was only one thing he knew to do. He'd chop off those lovely locks she adored so much, the very hair he knew she spent at least an hour admiring and perfecting in front of the mirror every morning, the very golden curls many of the Asgardians possessed (his own mother donned the same hair, if only dimmer in comparison to Sif's).

From his sleeve he drew his favorite knife-it was a throwing dagger, really, but it would suffice-and gingerly lifted a few strands of her hair between his fingers with one hand while he positioned the knife with the other. He smirked mischievously and made the first cut.

Mere hours later, Loki would be startled awake by the abrupt and piercing shriek of a fretful young Sif, crying out his name in the early morning darkness with a voice made raw with rage and anguish.

His heart would pound not for the concern of his impending punishment but rather the sound of her voice calling out his name.


	73. Trust

It had taken a while to convince Hela of his newfound determination, his heretofore nonchalance now replaced by a strange, oddly placed devotion; she'd guessed it was a trick, at first.

Over time, though, Loki's daughter had grown to truly care for her father, and on most days he managed to visit her for a few hours, weathering the overall discomfort he felt at being amidst the chaos of her realm and basking in the time he could spend with her. Lounging on a throne made entirely of what looked like bone, she'd watch him, rapt with attention, and they'd exchange their stories and tales of the day, laughing at each other's jokes.

And when Hela laughed, Loki felt a deep, warm sensation in the very core of his heart, knowing, despite the sensation, that it was all in his head, but remaining completely uncaring about that little fact-his love was nearly a tangible thing, spreading through his veins like liquid fire and showering her in the most affectionate light he could see.

Her green gaze, just like his own, was bright, one half of her face all pale, ghostly skin and soft angles and dark, ebony strands of hair while the other side consisted of mere bones, the rest of her body shrouded by a black dress made of wispy material that curled away from the ground when she walked across it. One day, when he was about to leave, she turned to him, pulled from her brief reverie to stare at him blankly, tilting her head.

"You're leaving-so soon?"

He didn't mention that he'd already been talking to her for longer than usual, anyway, or that he had important business to tend to, or that he was a bit tired. He just smiled, nodding to himself, and reclined in his seat, his grin widening as she beamed at him- a rare, precious thing he hadn't seen her do in centuries.


	74. Popcorn

Due to Bucky's increasing desire to bask in every aspect of modern life possible, they had begun to stay up past ungodly hours of the night to explore all that he'd missed. Natasha, known to become quite grumpy when she was deprived of her nightly due, had been trying to find creative ways to quell her mild irritation and avoid taking it out on Bucky.

He'd lately taken a liking to marathoning excessively long movies to pass the time, which was all good and fun until they began to watch movies like _The Lord of the Rings_ and _Harry Potter_. Those absolutely drained the energy right out of Natasha Romanoff, famous spy and relentless Black Widow, who apparently couldn't handle the triviality of movie series at midnight. Bucky, on the other hand, was thrilled each and every time they did anything, anything at all that might bring him closer to filling in the holes throughout his memory.

So, Natasha had to find ways to stopper both her boredom and frustration, and she found such a method in the buttery, salty taste of popcorn. While her eyelids drooped from exhaustion, and while Bucky's eyes widened with shock at some unforeseen plot twist as Harry Potter looked at Snape's memories, Natasha began throwing pieces of popcorn at her boyfriend, smirking in amusement as he tried his best to ignore the light-hearted assault.

Eventually, without ever taking his eyes away from the screen, he began to turn and catch the popcorn in his mouth, and so began the game of '_How Fast Can I Throw This Popcorn Before He Looks Away to Catch It?'. _

They endured nearly ten minutes of throwing before Bucky was forced to make a choice between averting his attentive gaze or successfully catching the popcorn, and as he turned away from the scene Natasha grinned in triumph. He threw her a bright blue gaze of mock ire before returning it to the television screen, but there was a lingering curl at the corners of his lips that made her own smile widen significantly.


	75. Catching Up

Bucky made a displeased expression of concentration when they watched Simba, slung over Mufasa's limp body, cry out with grief, and Steve himself found it hard to hold in his sadness; Bucky seemed intensely focused on keeping his tears in check. The red apples Bucky used to like so much had really gone downhill in the flavor department, and Bucky blamed modern science for it, even though he was clueless as to the true reason; Steve just smiled and chewed a slice of his green apple smugly. The rap music was a terrifying experience. _Star Trek_ kept them occupied for around a month or so, fueled by a lack of sleep, sugar, and their own willpower. The rollercoasters had undergone certain improvements, but the nauseous feeling they elicited definitely hadn't. The popcorn tasted better, but the cars seemed more dangerous and Bucky had trouble quelling his anxiety as they rode in one.

He asked questions, finally, after analyzing nearly every detail of the new world around them, and Steve happily obliged. Why was Steve always jumping out of tall buildings? Why did the people on the news look so angry? What was KFC's secret recipe? Why did every dog in every movie they watched have to die? When did Halloween night get so creepy? As the months went by, his questions became less frequent, and Steve realized that Bucky was quietly observing and accepting everything around him, now, rather than questioning it-and that was perfectly fine. Bucky began to notice small things, the tiniest of details, that made him forget all the years that had passed without him, all the people that had felt his absence, surely, but ignored the ever-dulling pang of grief.

He noticed that Steve's eyes were brighter than they'd been seventy years ago, that his gait wasn't so hunched and sickly and unsure. Bucky had known these things once Steve had been injected with the serum, but so much had happened so fast that he'd barely been able to truly see in what ways his friend was different. Steve's smile was wider, his laugh heartier, his entire demeanor much lighter than he remembered it ever being before.

And once he realized all of those things, Bucky knew that he could withstand all of the realizations, all of the changes, and sit down and watch all the movies in the world, eat all the new food possible, and bask in every day onward-just so long as Steve was by his side.


	76. Jerky

Darcy cast him a sideways glance in the midst of her furious chewing and smirked, biting off another piece of beef jerky that she knew she'd eventually convince Loki to try. He glared at her noisy ministrations and crossed his arms, elbows resting unmannerly atop the table as the dim overhead lights made his hair appear shades darker, painting sinister shadows across the sharp angles of his face.

"You know," Darcy began, swallowing a half-chewed piece of jerky and grimacing as it reluctantly made its way down her throat, "we could have been friends, probably, if you'd come down here with Thor and not been such an asshole." Loki merely stared at her, emerald eyes wide and unblinking, and she frowned ever the slightest.

"…If you weren't a mass murderer, I mean."

He tilted his head at her, pale skin bright in the semi-darkness, and she pushed her glasses up a bit, irritated by them. An awkward, pregnant pause developed between them as Darcy continued her contented chewing, waiting for Thor to return to the kitchen as he'd promised, idly kicking her feet back and forth beneath her chair in an absentminded habit of hers she'd had for years. She ripped off a particularly hard and stubborn piece of jerky with only her teeth and mere willpower while Loki made an unpleasant expression.

"I highly doubt it," he finally replied, and she met his off-putting gaze with a mirthful glint in her dark eyes, grinning like she knew the funniest joke in the entire universe.


	77. Balcony

Loki's lips slid easily over the milky expanse of Sif's throat, skin heated by the throes of passion against the balcony railing as he tightened his arms around her waist. She'd always enjoyed the way he held her close, flush and secure against his own body and intensely cherished, his cold fingers clutching at the shoulder blades felt beneath her skin. He had always made her feel especially precious, though not fragile, unlike so many of the other men in Asgard that eyed her with such blatant, disgusting interest, as if they might wish to purchase her.

She was a lady, ivory skin and blood-red lips, of porcelain and glass to the men at court, an object to be fawned over and a prize to be won. But with Loki, she felt exactly like the warrior she was, and yet he left within her a sense of immense belonging, the idea that he could treat her both as she was and as she might wish to be treated. It was a great comfort, a thing that had initially drawn her to him.

But with one of his hands now exploring the paleness of her thigh while the other wound through her ebony locks, it was rather difficult to focus on the butterflies he elicited.

She kissed him fervently, hungrily, and he smiled against her mouth, laughing as he attempted to tug her closer; she could feel the vibrations from his throat and had to stifle a laugh of her own as she cupped her hand at the back of his neck and pulled his head more toward hers. Sif arched into him, seemingly of her body's own volition, and threaded her fingers through the mess of dark hair he desperately needed to cut as his hand worked its way up past her hip and to her waist, fingers splayed against the skin there, his knuckles straining against the tight fabric of her dress.

It was a new style that had arrived to Asgard, one the older women were reluctant to welcome, but Sif had been glad for the momentary change of attire; wearing flowing dresses to feasts was far less satisfying than wearing tight-fitting material just to see the wide eyes and surprised expressions. She hiked her leg up, against her better judgment (the dress wasn't made for such motion), and greedily hooked it about his hip just as he lifted the dress so that only mere leather rested between them.

She knew that Loki would be quick to remove the offending armor, and relished in the press of his hands against her inner thighs, the oddest, most wonderful sensation pooling at the pit of her stomach.


	78. Need

Simmons' hand felt warm against his shoulder, comforting and soft and simply _there_, a needed reassurance. Fitz had tried to find the words to describe his newest discovery, had known what he wanted to say and been painfully aware of his puzzling inability to form the words, but she'd been there to anchor him, to support him in any and every way she was able, and that was enough to quell his temper, to ease the unrest growing in his mind at his own inadequacies. That's what it was to him: an inadequacy.

To Jemma, though, it was a reminder of what he'd done not very long ago, a constant little murmur in the back of her head that he'd saved her life down there in the ocean, and a sure sign of all HYDRA and Ward had taken from them.

But each and every day brought with it the hope of improvement, of progress, and, slowly, that hand atop her own felt ever more familiar, those eyes shined even brighter, and that smile was less and less confused, less hurt, less troubled.

Slowly, Fitz became more like himself, and, one day, when at last he looked up at her and grinned so proudly, he told her of his latest discovery-no hesitation, no stuttering, no desperate snapping of his fingers. There was triumph in his warm gaze, and she felt a tear roll down her cheek.


End file.
